MUSIC  AND  BAD  MANNERS 


LEO  ORNSTEIN 

SPAIN  AND  MUSIC 

THE  BRIDGE  BURNERS 

MUSIC  FOR  THE  MOVIES 

A  NEW  PRINCIPLE  IN  MUSIC 

SHALL  WE  REALIZE  WAGNER'S  IDEALS? 


U 


f  aul 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
PAUL  PADGETTE 


By  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 
MUSIC  AFTER  THE  GREAT  WAR 


Music 
and  Bad  Manners 

Carl    Van    Vechten 


New  York  Alfred  A.  Knopf 

MCMXVI 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

All  rights  reserved, 


PRINTED 'IN    THE   UNITED  STATES  OF   AMERICA 


To  my  Father 


Contents 


PAGE 

Music  AND  BAD  MANNERS  11 

MUSIC    FOE    THE    MOVIES  43 

SPAIN  AND  Music  57 

SHALL  WE  REALIZE  WAGNER'S  IDEALS?  135 

THE  BRIDGE  BURNERS  169 

A  NEW  PRINCIPLE  IN  Music  217 

LEO  ORNSTEIN  229 


Music  and  Bad  Manners 


Music  and  Bad  Manners 


SINGERS,  musicians  of  all  kinds,  are  notori- 
ously bad  mannered.  The  storms  of  the 
Titan,  Beethoven,  the  petty  malevolences  of 
Richard  Wagner,  the  weak  sulkiness  of  Chopin 
("  Chopin  in  displeasure  was  appalling,"  writes 
George  Sand,  "  and  as  with  me  he  always  con- 
trolled himself  it  was  as  if  he  might  die  of  suffoca- 
tion") have  all  been  recalled  in  their  proper 
places  in  biographies  and  in  fiction ;  but  no  attempt 
has  been  made  heretofore,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  to 
lump  similar  anecdotes  together  under  the  some- 
what castigating  title  I  have  chosen  to  head 
this  article.  Nor  is  it  alone  the  performer  who 
gives  exhibitions  of  bad  manners.  (As  a  matter 
of  fact,  once  an  artist  reaches  the  platform  he  is 
on  his  mettle,  at  his  best.  At  home  he  —  or  she 
—  may  be  ruthless  in  his  passionate  display  of 
floods  of  "  temperament."  I  have  seen  a  soprano 
throw  a  pork  roast  on  the  floor  at  dinner,  the  day 
before  a  performance  of  Wagner's  "  consecra- 
tional  festival  play,"  with  the  shrill  explanation, 
"  Pork  before  Parsifal!  "  On  the  street  he  may 
shatter  the  clouds  with  his  lightnings  —  as,  indeed, 
Beethoven  is  said  to  have  done  —  but  on  the  stage 
he  becomes,  as  a  rule,  a  superhuman  being,  an  in- 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

terpreter,  a  mere  virtuoso.  Of  course,  there  are 
exceptions.)  Audiences,  as  well,  may  be  relied 
upon  to  behave  badly  on  occasion.  An  auditor  is 
not  necessarily  at  his  best  in  the  concert  hall.  He 
may  have  had  a  bad  dinner,  or  quarrelled  with  his 
wife  before  arriving.  At  any  rate  he  has  paid 
his  money  and  it  might  be  expected  that  he  would 
make  some  demonstration  of  disapproval  when  he 
was  displeased.  The  extraordinary  thing  is  that 
he  does  not  do  so  oftener.  On  the  whole  it  must 
be  admitted  that  audiences  remain  unduly  calm  at 
concerts,  that  they  are  unreasonably  polite,  in- 
deed, to  offensively  inadequate  or  downright  bad 
interpretations.  I  have  sat  through  perform- 
ances, for  example,  of  the  Russian  Symphony  So- 
ciety in  New  York  when  I  wondered  how  my  fel- 
low-sufferers could  display  such  fortitude  and 
patience.  When  Prince  Igor  was  first  performed 
at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  the  ballet, 
danced  in  defiance  of  all  laws  of  common  sense  or 
beauty,  almost  compelled  me  to  throw  the  first 
stone.  The  parable  saved  me.  Still  one  doesn't 
need  to  be  without  sin  to  sling  pebbles  in  an  opera 
house.  And  it  is  a  pleasure  to  remember  that 
there  have  been  occasions  when  audiences  did 
speak  up! 

In    those    immeasurably    sad    pages    in    which 
[12] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

Henry  Fothergill  Chorley  describes  the  last  Lon- 
don appearance  of  Giuditta  Pasta,  recalling  Pau- 
line Viardot's  beautiful  remark  (she,  like  Rachel, 
was  hearing  the  great  dramatic  soprano  for  the 
first  time),  "  It  is  like  the  Cenacolo  of  Da  Vinci  at 
Milan  —  a  wreck  of  a  picture,  but  the  picture  is 
the  greatest  picture  in  the  world ! "  this  great 
chronicler  of  the  glories  of  the  opera-stage  recalls 
the  attitude  of  the  French  actress :  "  There  were 
artists  present,  who  had  then,  for  the  first  time, 
to  derive  some  impression  of  a  renowned  artist  — 
perhaps,  with  the  natural  feeling  that  her  reputa- 
tion had  been  exaggerated. —  Among  these  was 
Rachel  —  whose  bitter  ridicule  of  the  entire  sad 
show  made  itself  heard  throughout  the  whole  thea- 
tre, and  drew  attention  to  the  place  where  she  sat 
—  one  might  even  say,  sarcastically  enjoying  the 
scene." 

Chorley's  description  of  an  incident  in  the 
career  of  the  dynamic  Mme.  Mara,  a  favour- 
ite in  Berlin  from  1771  to  1780,  makes  far 
pleasanter  reading:  "On  leave  of  absence  being 
denied  to  her  when  she  wished  to  recruit  her 
strength  by  a  visit  to  the  Bohemian  baden,  the 
songstress  took  the  resolution  of  neglecting  her 
professional  duties,  in  the  hope  of  being  allowed 
to  depart  as  worthless.  The  Czarovitch,  Paul  the 
[13] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

First  of  Russia,  happened  about  that  time  to  pay 
a  visit  to  Berlin ;  and  she  was  announced  to  appear 
in  one  of  the  grand  parts.  She  pretended  illness. 
The  King  sent  her  word,  in  the  morning  of  the 
day,  that  she  was  to  get  well  and  sing  her  best. 
She  became,  of  course,  worse  —  could  not  leave 
her  bed.  Two  hours  before  the  opera  began,  a 
carriage,  escorted  by  eight  soldiers,  was  at  her 
door,  and  the  captain  of  the  company  forced  his 
way  into  her  chamber,  declaring  that  their  orders 
were  to  bring  her  to  the  theatre,  dead  or  alive. 
4  You  cannot ;  you  see  I  am  in  bed.'  *  That  is  of 
little  consequence,'  said  the  obdurate  machine; 
'  we  will  take  you,  bed  and  all.'  There  was  noth- 
ing for  it  but  to  get  up  and  go  to  the  theatre; 
dress,  and  resolve  to  sing  without  the  slightest 
taste  or  skill.  And  this  Mara  did.  She  kept  her 
resolution  for  the  whole  of  the  first  act,  till  a 
thought  suddenly  seized  her  that  she  might  be 
punishing  herself  in  giving  the  Grand-Duke  of 
Russia  a  bad  opinion  of  her  powers.  A  "bravura 
came ;  and  she  burst  forth  with  all  her  brilliancy,  in 
particular  distinguishing  herself  by  a  miraculous 
shake,  which  she  sustained,  and  swelled,  and  dimin- 
ished, with  such  wonderful  art  as  to  call  down 
more  applause  than  ever."  This  was  the  same 
Mara  who  walked  out  of  the  orchestra  at  a  per- 
[14] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

formance  of  The  Messiah  at  Oxford  rather  than 
stand  during  the  singing  of  the  Hallelujah  Chorus. 
In  that  curious  series  of  anecdotes  which  Ber- 
lioz collected  under  the  title,  "  Les  Grotesques  de 
la  Musique,"  I  discovered  an  account  of  a  per- 
formance of  a  Miserere  of  Mercadante  at  the 
church  of  San  Pietro  in  Naples,  in  the  presence  of 
a  cardinal  and  his  suite.  The  cardinal  several 
times  expressed  his  pleasure,  and  the  congregation 
at  two  points,  the  Redde  MM  and  the  Benigne  fac, 
Domine,  broke  in  with  applause  and  insisted  upon 
repetitions !  Berlioz  also  describes  a  rehearsal  of 
Gretry's  La  Rosiere  de  Salency  at  the  Odeon,  when 
that  theatre  was  devoted  to  opera.  The  members 
of  the  orchestra  were  overcome  with  a  sense  of 
the  ridiculous  nature  of  the  music  they  were  per- 
forming and  made  strange  sounds  the  while  they 
played.  The  chef  d9  or  chest  re  attempted  to  keep 
his  face  straight,  and  Berlioz  thought  he  was  scan- 
dalized by  the  scene.  A  little  later,  however,  he 
found  himself  laughing  harder  than  anybody  else. 
The  memory  of  this  occasion  gave  him  the  in- 
spiration some  time  later  of  arranging  a  concert 
of  works  of  this  order  (in  which,  he  assured  him- 
self, the  music  of  the  masters  abounded),  without 
forewarning  the  public  of  his  purpose.  He  pre- 
pared the  programme,  including  therein  this  same 
[15] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

overture  of  Gretry's,  then  a  celebrated  English 
air  Arm,  Ye  Brave,  a  "  sonata  diabolique  "  for  the 
violin,  the  quartet  from  a  French  opera  in  which 
this  passage  occurred: 

"  J'aime  assez  les  Hollandaises, 
Les  Persanes,  les  Anglaises, 
Mais  je  prefere  des  Fran9aises 
L'esprit,  la  grace  et  la  gaite," 

an  instrumental  march,  the  finale  of  the  first  act 
of  an  opera,  a  fugue  on  Kyrie  Eleison  from  a 
Requiem  Mass  in  which  the  music  suggested  any- 
thing but  the  words,  variations  for  the  bassoon  on 
the  melody  of  Au  Clair  de  la  Lime,  and  a  sym- 
phony. Unfortunately  for  the  trial  of  the  ex- 
periment the  rehearsal  was  never  concluded.  The 
executants  got  no  further  than  the  third  number 
before  they  became  positively  hysterical.  The 
public  performance  was  never  given,  but  Berlioz 
assures  us  that  the  average  symphony  concert  au- 
dience would  have  taken  the  programme  seriously 
and  asked  for  morel  It  may  be  considered  cer- 
tain that  in  his  choice  of  pieces  Berlioz  was  mak- 
ing game  of  some  of  his  contemporaries.  .  .  . 

In  all  the  literature  on  the  subject  of  music 
there  are  no  more  delightful  volumes  to  be  met 
with  than  those  of  J.  B.  Weckerlin,  called  "  Mu- 
[16] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

siciana,"  "  Nouveau  Musiciana,"  and  "  Dernier 
Musiciana."  These  books  are  made  up  of  anec- 
dotes, personal  and  otherwise.  From  Bourdelot's 
"  Histoire  de  la  Musique  "  Weckerlin  culled  the 
following :  "  An  equerry  of  Madame  la  Dauphine 
asked  two  of  the  court  musicians  to  his  home  at 
Versailles  for  dinner  one  evening.  They  sang 
standing  opposite  the  mantelpiece,  over  which 
hung  a  great  mirror  which  was  broken  in  six 
pieces  by  the  force  of  tone ;  all  the  porcelain  on  the 
buffet  resounded  and  shook."  Weckerlin  also  re- 
calls a  caprice  of  Louis  XI,  who  one  day  com- 
manded the  Abbe  de  Baigne,  who  had  already  in- 
vented many  musical  instruments,  to  devise  a 
harmony  out  of  pigs.  The  Abbe  asked  for  some 
money,  which  was  grudgingly  given,  and  con- 
structed a  pavilion  covered  with  velvet,  under 
which  he  placed  a  number  of  pigs.  Before  this 
pavilion  he  arranged  a  white  table  with  a  keyboard 
constructed  in  such  a  fashion  that  the  displacing 
of  a  key  stuck  a  pig  with  a  needle.  The  sounds 
evoked  were  out  of  the  ordinary,  and  it  is  recorded 
that  the  king  was  highly  diverted  and  asked  for 
more.  Auber's  enthusiasm  for  his  own  music,  usu- 
ally concealed  under  an  indifferent  air,  occasion- 
ally expressed  itself  in  strange  fashion.  Mme. 
Damoreau  recounted  to  Weckerlin  how,  when  the 
[17] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

composer  completed  an  air  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  even  at  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
he  rushed  to  her  apartment.  Dragging  a  piano- 
forte to  her  bed,  he  insisted  on  playing  the  new 
song  over  and  over  to  her,  while  she  sang  it,  mean- 
while making  the  changes  suggested  by  this  ex- 
traordinary performance. 

More  modern  instances  come  to  mind.  Maria 
Gay  is  not  above  nose-blowing  and  expectoration 
in  her  interpretation  of  Carmen,  physical  acts  in 
the  public  performance  of  which  no  Spanish  ciga- 
rette girl  would  probably  be  caught  ashamed. 
Yet  it  may  be  doubted  if  they  suit  the  music  of 
Bizet,  or  the  Meilhac  and  Halevy  version  of  Meri- 
mee's  creation.  ...  A  story  has  been  related  to 
me  —  I  do  not  vouch  for  the  truth  of  it  —  that 
during  a  certain  performance  of  Carmen  at  the 
Opera-Comique  in  Paris  a  new  singer,  at  some 
stage  in  the  proceedings,  launched  that  dreadful 
French  word  which  Georges  Feydeau  so  ingenu- 
ously allowed  his  heroine  to  project  into  the  sec- 
ond act  of  La  Dame  de  chez  Maxim,  with  a  result 
even  more  startling  than  that  which  attended  Ber- 
nard Shaw's  excursion  into  the  realms  of  the  ex- 
pletive in  his  play,  Pygmalion.  It  is  further 
related  of  this  performance  of  Carmen,  which  is 
said  to  have  sadly  disturbed  the  "  traditions,"  that 
[18] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

in  the  excitement  incident  to  her  debut  the  lady 
positively  refused  to  allow  Don  Jose  to  kill  her. 
Round  and  round  the  stage  she  ran  while  the  per- 
spiring tenor  tried  in  vain  to  catch  her.  At 
length,  the  music  of  the  score  being  concluded,  the 
curtain  fell  on  a  Carmen  still  alive;  the  salle  was 
in  an  uproar. 

I  find  I  cannot  include  Chaliapine's  Basilio  in  my 
list  of  bad  mannered  stage  performances,  although 
his  trumpetings  into  his  handkerchief  disturbed 
many  of  New  York's  professional  writers.  II 
Barbiere  is  a  farcical  piece,  and  the  music  of  Ros- 
sini hints  at  the  Rabelaisian  humours  of  the  dirty 
Spanish  priest.  In  any  event,  it  was  the  finest 
interpretation  of  the  role  that  I  have  ever  seen 
or  heard  and,  with  the  splendid  ensemble  (Mme. 
Sembrich  was  the  Rosina,  Mr.  Bonci,  the  count, 
and  Mr.  Campanari,  the  Figaro),  the  comedy  went 
with  such  joyous  abandon  (the  first  act  finale  to 
the  accompaniment  of  roars  of  laughter  from  the 
stalls)  that  I  am  inclined  to  believe  the  perform- 
ance could  not  be  bettered  in  this  generation. 

The  late  Algernon  St.  John  Brenon  used  to  re- 
late a  history  about  Emma  Eames  and  a  recalci- 
trant tenor.  The  opera  was  Lohengrin,  I  be- 
lieve, and  the  question  at  issue  was  the  position  of 
a  certain  couch.  Mme.  Eames  wished  it  placed 
[19] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

here;  the  tenor  there.  As  always  happens  in  ar- 
guments concerning  a  Wagnerian  music-drama,  at 
some  point  the  Bayreuth  tradition  was  invoked, 
although  I  have  forgotten  whether  that  tradition 
favoured  the  soprano  or  her  opponent  in  this  in- 
stance. In  any  case,  at  the  rehearsal  the  tenor 
seemed  to  have  won  the  battle.  When  at  the  per- 
formance he  found  the  couch  in  the  exact  spot 
which  had  been  designated  by  the  lady  his  indig- 
nation was  all  the  greater  on  this  account.  With 
as  much  regard  for  the  action  of  the  drama  as 
was  consistent  with  so  violent  a  gesture  he  gave 
the  couch  a  violent  shove  with  his  projected  toe, 
with  the  intention  of  pushing  it  into  his  chosen 
locality.  He  retired  with  a  howl,  nursing  a 
wounded  member.  The  couch  had  been  nailed  to 
the  floor! 

It  is  related  that  Marie  Delna  was  discovered 
washing  dishes  at  an  inn  in  a  small  town  near 
Paris.  Her  benefactors  took  her  to  the  capital 
and  placed  her  in  the  Conservatoire.  She  always 
retained  a  certain  peasant  obstinacy,  and  it  is  said 
that  during  the  course  of  her  instruction  when  she 
was  corrected  she  frequently  replied,  "  Je  m'en 
vais."  Against  this  phrase  argument  was  un- 
availing and  Mme.  Delna,  as  a  result,  acquired  a 
habit  of  having  her  own  way.  Her  Orphee  was 
[20] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

(and  still  is,  I  should  think)  one  of  the  notable 
achievements  of  our  epoch.  It  must  have  equalled 
Pauline  Viardot's  performance  dramatically,  and 
transcended  it  vocally.  After  singing  the  part 
several  hundred  times  she  naturally  acquired  cer- 
tain habits  and  mannerisms,  tricks  both  of  action 
and  of  voice.  Still,  it  is  said  that  when  she  came 
to  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  she  offered,  at  a 
rehearsal,  to  defer  to  Mr.  Toscanini's  ideas.  He, 
the  rumour  goes,  gave  his  approval  to  her  inter- 
pretation on  this  occasion.  Not  so  at  the  per- 
formance. Those  who  have  heard  it  can  never 
forget  the  majesty  and  beauty  of  this  character- 
ization, as  noble  a  piece  of  stage-work  as  we  have 
seen  or  heard  in  our  day.  At  her  debut  in  the 
part  in  New  York  Mme.  Delna  was  superb,  vocally 
and  dramatically.  In  the  celebrated  air,  Che 
faro  senza  Euridice,  the  singer  followed  the  tradi- 
tion, doubly  established  by  the  example  of  Mme. 
Viardot  in  the  great  revival  of  the  mid-century, 
of  singing  the  different  stanzas  of  the  air  in  differ- 
ent tempi.  In  her  slowest  adagio  the  conductor 
became  impatient.  He  beat  his  stick  briskly 
across  his  desk  and  whipped  up  the  orchestra. 
There  was  soon  a  hiatus  of  two  bars  between 
singer  and  musicians.  It  was  a  terrible  moment, 
but  the  singer  won  the  victory.  She  turned  her 
[21] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

back  on  the  conductor  and  continued  to  sing  in  her 
own  time.  The  organ  tones  rolled  out  and  pres- 
ently the  audience  became  aware  of  a  junction 
between  the  two  great  forces.  Mr.  Toscanini  was 
vanquished,  but  he  never  forgave  her. 

During  the  opera  season  of  1915-16,  opera- 
goers  were  treated  to  a  diverting  exhibition. 
Mme.  Geraldine  Farrar,  just  returned  from  a 
fling  at  three  five-reel  cinema  dramas,  elected  to 
instil  a  bit  of  moving  picture  realism  into  Carmen. 
Fresh  with  the  memory  of  her  prolonged  and  bru- 
tal scuffle  in  the  factory  scene  as  it  was  depicted 
on  the  screen,  Mme.  Farrar  attempted  something 
like  it  in  the  opera,  the  first  act  of  which  was  en- 
livened with  sundry  blows  and  kicks.  More  seri- 
ous still  were  her  alleged  assaults  on  the  tenor 
(Mr.  Caruso)  in  the  third  act  which,  it  is  said, 
resulted  in  his  clutching  her  like  a  struggling  eel, 
to  prevent  her  interference  with  his  next  note. 
There  was  even  a  suggestion  of  disagreement  in 
the  curtain  calls  which  ensued.  All  these  inci- 
dents of  an  enlivening  evening  were  duly  and  im- 
pressively chronicled  in  the  daily  press. 

There   is,   of   course,   Vladimir   de   Pachmann. 

Everybody  who  has  attended  his  recitals  has  come 

under  the  spell  of  his  beautiful  tone  and  has  been 

annoyed    by    his    bad    manners.     For,    curiously 

[22] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

enough,  the  two  qualities  have  become  inseparable 
with  him,  especially  in  recent  years.  Once  in  Chi- 
cago I  saw  the  strange  little  pianist  sit  down  in 
front  of  his  instrument,  rise  again,  gesticulate, 
and  leave  the  stage.  Returning  with  a  stage-hand 
he  pointed  to  his  stool ;  it  was  not  satisfactory. 
A  chair  was  brought  in,  tried,  and  found  wanting ; 
more  gesticulation  •. —  this  time  wilder.  At  length, 
after  considerable  discussion  between  Mr.  de  Pach- 
mann  and  the  stage-hand,  all  in  view  of  the  audi- 
ence, it  was  decided  that  nothing  would  do  but 
that  some  one  must  fetch  the  artist's  own  piano 
bench  from  his  hotel,  which,  fortunately,  adjoined 
the  concert  hall.  This  was  accomplished  in  the 
course  of  time.  In  the  interval  the  pianist  did  not 
leave  the  platform.  He  sat  at  the  back  on  the 
chair  which  had  been  offered  him  as  a  substitute 
for  the  offending  stool  and  entertained  his  audi- 
ence with  a  spectacular  series  of  grimaces. 

On  another  occasion  this  singular  genius  ar- 
rested his  fingers  in  the  course  of  a  performance  of 
one  of  Chopin's!  etudes*  His  ears  were  enraptured, 
it  would  seem,  by  his  own  rendition  of  a  certain 
run ;  over  and  over  again  he  played  it,  now  faster, 
now  more  slowly ;  at  times  almost  slowly  enough  to 
give  the  student  in  the  front  row  a  glimpse  of  the 
magic  fingering.  With  a  sudden  change  of  man- 
[23] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

ner  he  announced,  "  This  is  the  way  Godowsky 
would  play  this  scale  " :  great  velocity  but  a  dry 
tone.  Then,  "  And  now  Pachmann  again ! " 
The  magic  fingers  stroked  the  keys. 

Even  as  an  auditor  de  Pachmann  sometimes  ex- 
ploits his  eccentricities.  Josef  Hofmann  once 
told  me  the  following  story:  De  Pachmann  was 
sitting  in  the  third  row  at  a  concert  Rubinstein 
gave  in  his  prime.  De  Pachmann  burst  into  hi- 
larious laughter,  rocking  to  and  fro.  Rubinstein 
was  playing  beautifully  and  de  Pachmann's  neigh- 
bour, annoyed,  demanded  why  he  was  laughing. 
De  Pachmann  could  scarcely  speak  as  he  pointed 
to  the  pianist  on  the  stage  and  replied,  "  He  used 
the  fourth  finger  instead  of  the  third  in  that  run. 
Isn't  it  funny?" 

I  cannot  take  Vladimir  de  Pachmann  to  task  for 
these  amusing  bad  manners !  But  they  annoy  the 
bourgeois.  We  should  most  of  us  be  glad  to  have 
Oscar  Wilde  brilliant  at  our  dinner  parties,  even 
though  he  ate  peas  with  his  knife ;  and  Napoleon's 
generalship  would  have  been  as  effective  if  he  had 
been  an  omnivorous  reader  of  the  works  of  Laura 
Jean  Libbey.  But  one  must  not  dwell  too  long 
on  de  Pachmann.  One  might  be  tempted  to  de- 
vote an  entire  essay  to  the  relation  of  his  eccen- 
tricities. 

[24] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

Another  pianist,  also  a  composer,  claims  atten- 
tion: Alberto  Savinio.  You  may  find  a  photo- 
lithograph  of  Savinio's  autograph  manuscript  of 
Bellovees  Fatales,  No,  1£9  in  that  curious  period- 
ical entitled  "  291,"  the  number  for  April,  1915. 
There  is  a  programme,  which  reads  as  follows : 

LA  PASSION  DES  ROTULES 

La  Femme :     Ah !  II  m'a  touche  de  sa  j  ambe 

de  caoutchouc!     Ma-ma!     Ma-ma! 
L'Homme:     Tutto    s'ha   di   rosa,    Maria, 

per  te.  .  .  . 
La  Femme :     Ma-ma !     Ma-ma ! 

There  are  indications  as  to  how  the  composer 
wishes  his  music  to  be  played,  sometimes  glissando 
and  sometimes  "  avec  des  pomgs."  The  rapid  and 
tortuous  passages  between  the  black  and  white 
keys  would  test  the  contortionistic  qualities  of  any 
one's  fingers.  Savinio,  it  is  said,  at  his  appear- 
ances in  Paris,  actually  played  until  his  fingers 
bled.  When  he  had  concluded,  indeed,  the  ends  of 
his  fingers  were  crushed  and  bruised  and  the  key- 
board was  red  with  blood.  Albert  Gleizes,  quoted 
by  Walter  Conrad  Arensberg,  is  my  authority  for 
this  bizarre  history  of  music  and  bad  manners. 
I  have  not  seen  (or  heard)  Savinio  perform.  But 
when  I  told  this  tale  to  Leo  Ornstein  he  assured  me 
[25] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

that  he  frequently  had  had  a  similar  experience. 

Remain  Holland  in  "  Jean-Christophe  "  relates 
an  incident  which  is  especially  interesting  because 
it  has  a  foundation  in  fact.  Something  of  the 
sort  happened  to  Hugo  Wolf  when  an  orchestra 
performed  his  Penthesilea  overture  for  the  first 
time.  It  is  a  curious  example  of  bad  manners  in 
which  both  the  performers  and  the  audience  join. 

"  At  last  it  came  to  Christophe's  symphony." 
(I  am  quoting  from  Gilbert  Cannan's  transla- 
tion.) "  He  saw  from  the  way  the  orchestra  and 
the  people  in  the  hall  were  looking  at  his  box  that 
they  were  aware  of  his  presence.  He  hid  himself. 
He  waited  with  the  catch  at  his  heart  which  every 
musician  feels  at  the  moment  when  the  conductor's 
wand  is  raised  and  the  waters  of  the  music  gather 
in  silence  before  bursting  their  dam.  He  had 
never  yet  heard  his  work  played.  How  would  the 
creatures  of  his  dreams  live?  How  would  their 
voices  sound?  He  felt  their  roaring  within  him; 
and  he  leaned  over  the  abyss  of  sounds  waiting 
fearfully  for  what  should  come  forth. 

"  What  did  come  forth  was  a  nameless  thing,  a 
shapeless  hotchpotch.  Instead  of  the  bold  col- 
umns which  were  to  support  the  front  of  the  build- 
ing the  chords  came  crumbling  down  like  a  build- 
ing in  ruins ;  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the 
[26] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

dust  of  mortar.  For  a  moment  Christophe  was 
not  quite  sure  whether  they  were  really  playing  his 
work.  He  cast  back  for  the  train,  the  rhythm  of 
his  thoughts;  he  could  not  recognize  it;  it  went 
on  babbling  and  hiccoughing  like  a  drunken  man 
clinging  close  to  the  wall,  and  he  was  overcome 
with  shame,  as  though  he  himself  had  been  seen  in 
that  condition.  It  was  to  no  avail  to  think  that 
he  had  not  written  such  stuff;  when  an  idiotic  in- 
terpreter destroys  a  man's  thoughts  he  has  always 
a  moment  of  doubt  when  he  asks  himself  in  con- 
sternation if  he  is  himself  responsible  for  it.  The 
audience  never  asks  such  a  question;  the  audience 
believes  in  the  interpreter,  in  the  singers,  in  the 
orchestra  whom  they  are  accustomed  to  hear,  as 
they  believe  in  their  newspaper ;  they  cannot  make 
a  mistake ;  if  they  say  absurd  things,  it  is  the  ab- 
surdity of  the  author.  This  audience  was  the  less 
inclined  to  doubt  because  it  liked  to  believe. 
Christophe  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  the  Ka- 
pellmeister was  aware  of  the  hash  and  would  stop 
the  orchestra  and  begin  again.  The  instruments 
were  not  playing  together.  The  horn  had  missed 
his  beat  and  had  come  in  a  bar  too  late ;  he  went  on 
for  a  few  minutes  and  then  stopped  quietly  to 
clean  his  instrument.  Certain  passages  for  the 
oboe  had  absolutely  disappeared.  It  was  impossi- 
[27] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

ble  for  the  most  skilled  ear  to  pick  up  the  thread 
of  the  musical  idea,  or  even  to  imagine  there  was 
one.  Fantastic  instrumentations,  humoristic  sal- 
lies became  grotesque  through  the  coarseness  of 
the  execution.  It  was  lamentably  stupid,  the  work 
of  an  idiot,  of  a  joker  who  knew  nothing  of  music. 
Christophe  tore  his  hair.  He  tried  to  interrupt, 
but  the  friend  who  was  with  him  held  him  back, 
assuring  him  that  the  Herr  Kapellmeister  must 
surely  see  the  faults  of  the  execution  and  would 
put  everything  right  —  that  Christophe  must  not 
show  himself  and  that  if  he  made  any  remark  it 
would  have  a  very  bad  effect.  He  made  Chris- 
tophe sit  at  the  very  back  of  the  box.  Christophe 
obeyed,  but  he  beat  his  head  with  his  fists ;  and 
every  fresh  monstrosity  drew  from  him  a  groan  of 
indignation  and  misery. 

"  '  The  wretches !     The  wretches  !  .  .  .' 
"  He  groaned  and  squeezed  his  hands  tight  to 
keep  from  crying  out. 

"  Now  mingled  with  the  wrong  notes  there  came 
up  to  him  the  muttering  of  the  audience,  who  were 
beginning  to  be  restless.  At  first  it  was  only  a 
tremor ;  but  soon  Christophe  was  left  without  a 
doubt ;  they  were  laughing.  The  musicians  of  the 
orchestra  had  given  the  signal;  some  of  them  did 
not  conceal  their  hilarity.  The  audience,  certain 
[28] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

then  that  the  music  was  laughable,  rocked  with 
laughter.  This  merriment  became  general;  it  in- 
creased at  the  return  of  a  very  rhythmical  motif 
with  the  double-basses  accentuated  in  a  burlesque 
fashion.  Only  the  Kapellmeister  went  on  through 
the  uproar  imperturbably  beating  time. 

"  At  last  they  reached  the  end  (the  best  things 
come  to  an  end).  It  was  the  turn  of  the  audience. 
They  exploded  with  delight,  an  explosion  which 
lasted  for  several  minutes.  Some  hissed;  others 
applauded  ironically;  the  wittiest  of  all  shouted 
'  Encore ! '  A  bass  voice  coming  from  a  stage  box 
began  to  imitate  the  grotesque  motif.  Other  jok- 
ers followed  suit  and  imitated  it  also.  Some  one 
shouted  '  Author ! '  It  was  long  since  these  witty 
folk  had  been  so  highly  entertained. 

"  When  the  tumult  was  calmed  down  a  little  the 
Kapellmeister,  standing  quite  impassive  with  his 
face  turned  towards  the  audience,  though  he  was 
pretending  not  to  see  it  (the  audience  was  still 
supposed  to  be  non-existent),  made  a  sign  to  the 
audience  that  he  was  about  to  speak.  There  was 
a  cry  of  '  Ssh,'  and  silence.  He  waited  a  moment 
longer;  then  (his  voice  was  curt,  cold,  and  cut- 
ting) : 

" '  Gentlemen,'  he  said,  '  I  should  certainly  not 
have  let  that  be  played  through  to  the  end  if  I  had 
[29] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

not  wished  to  make  an  example  of  the  gentleman 
who  has  dared  to  write  offensively  of  the  great 
Brahms.' 

"  That  was  all ;  jumping  down  from  his  stand  he 
went  out  amid  cheers  from  the  delighted  audience. 
They  tried  to  recall  him ;  the  applause  went  on  for 
a  few  minutes  longer.  But  he  did  not  return. 
The  orchestra  went  away.  The  audience  decided 
to  go  too.  The  concert  was  over. 

"  It  had  been  a  good  day." 

Von  Billow  once  stopped  his  orchestra  at  a  pub- 
lic performance  to  remonstrate  with  a  lady  with  a 
fan  in  the  front  row  of  seats.  "  Madame,"  he 
said  gravely,  "  I  must  beg  you  to  cease  fanning 
yourself  in  three-four  time  while  I  am  conducting 
in  four-four  time !  " 

Here  are  a  few  personal  recollections  of  bad 
mannered  audiences.  A  performance  of  The 
Magic  Flute  in  Chicago  comes  to  mind.  Fritzi 
Scheff,  the  Papagena,  and  Giuseppe  Campanari, 
the  Papageno,  had  concluded  their  duet  in  the  last 
act  amidst  a  storm  of  applause,  in  face  of  which 
the  conductor  sped  on  to  the  entrance  of  the  Queen 
of  the  Night.  Mme.  Sembrich  entered  and  sang  a 
part  of  her  recitative  unheard.  One  could  see, 
however,  that  her  jaws  opened  and  closed  with  the 
mechanism  incidental  to  tone-production.  After 
[30] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

a  few  bars  she  retired  defeated  and  the  bad  man- 
nered audience  continued  to  shout  and  applaud  un- 
til that  unspeakable  bit  of  nonsense  which  runs 
"  Pa-pa-pa,"  etc.,  was  repeated.  Mme.  Sembrich 
appeared  no  more  that  day. 

Another  stormy  audience  I  encountered  at  a 
concert  of  the  Colonne  Orchestra  in  Paris.  Those 
who  sit  in  the  gallery  at  these  concerts  at  the  Cha- 
telet  Theatre  are  notoriously  opinionated.  There 
the  battles  of  Richard  Strauss  and  Debussy  have 
been  fought.  The  gallery  crowd  always  comes 
early  because  seats  in  the  top  of  the  house  are  un- 
reserved. They  cost  a  franc  or  two ;  I  forget  ex- 
actly how  much,  but  I  have  often  sat  there.  To 
pass  the  time  until  the  concert  begins,  and  also  to 
show  their  indifference  to  musical  literature  and 
the  opinions  of  others,  the  galleryites  fashion  a 
curious  form  of  spill,  with  one  end  in  a  point  and 
the  other  feathered  like  an  arrow,  out  of  the  pages 
of  the  annotated  programmes.  These  are  then 
sent  sailing,  in  most  instances  with  infinite  dexter- 
ity and  incredible  velocity,  over  the  heads  of  the 
arriving  audience.  The  objective  point  is  the 
very  centre  of  the  back  cloth  on  the  stage,  a  spot 
somewhat  above  the  kettle-drum.  A  successful 
shot  always  brings  forth  a  round  of  applause. 
But  this  is  (or  was)  an  episode  incident  to  any 
[31] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

Colonne  concert.  I  am  describing  an  occasion. 
The  concert  took  place  during  the  season  of 
poor  Colonne's  final  illness  (now  he  lies  buried  in 
that  curiously  remote  avenue  of  Pere-Lachaise 
where  repose  the  ashes  of  Oscar  Wilde).  Gabriel 
Pierne,  his  successor,  had  already  assumed  the  ba- 
ton, and  he  conducted  the  concert  in  question. 
Anton  Van  Rooy  was  the  soloist  and  he  had  chosen 
to  sing  two  very  familiar  (and  very  popular  in 
Paris)  Wagner  excerpts,  Wotan's  Farewell  from 
Die  Walkure,  and  the  air  which  celebrates  the  eve- 
ning star  from  Tannhduser.  (In  this  connection 
I  might  state  that  in  this  same  winter  — 1908-9 
—  Das  Rheingold  was  given  m  concert  form  —  it 
had  not  yet  been  performed  at  the  Opera  —  on 
two  consecutive  Sundays  at  the  Lamoureux  Con- 
certs in  the  Salle  Gaveau  to  standing  room 
only.)  The  concert  proceeded  in  orderly  fashion 
until  Mr.  Van  Rooy  appeared ;  then  the  uproar  be- 
gan. The  gallery  hooted,  and  screamed,  and 
yelled.  All  the  terrible  noises  which  only  a  Paris 
crowd  can  invent  were  hurled  from  the  dark  re- 
cesses of  that  gallery.  The  din  was  appalling, 
terrifying.  Mr.  Van  Rooy  nervously  fingered  a 
sheet  of  music  he  held  in  his  hands.  Undoubtedly 
visions  of  the  first  performance  of  Tannhduser  at 
the  Paris  Opera  passed  through  his  mind.  He 
[32] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

may  also  have  considered  the  possibility  of  escap- 
ing to  the  Gare  du  Nord,  with  the  chance  of  catch- 
ing a  train  for  Germany  before  the  mob  could  tear 
him  into  bits.  Mr.  Pierne,  who  knew  his  Paris, 
faced  the  crowd,  while  the  audience  below  peered 
up  and  shuddered,  with  something  of  the  fright  of 
the  aristocrats  during  the  first  days  of  the  Revo- 
lution. Then  he  held  up  his  hand  and,  in  time, 
the  modest  gesture  provoked  a  modicum  of  silence. 
In  that  silence  some  one  shrieked  out  the  explana- 
tion :  "  Tannhduser  avant  Walkure."  That  was 
all.  The  gallery  was  not  satisfied  with  the  or- 
der of  the  programme.  The  readjustment  was 
quickly  made,  the  parts  distributed  to  the  orches- 
tra, and  Mr.  Van  Rooy  sang  Wolfram's  air  before 
Wotan's.  It  may  be  said  that  never  could  he 
have  hoped  for  a  more  complete  ovation,  a  more 
flattering  reception  than  that  which  the  Parisian 
audience  accorded  him  when  he  had  finished.  The 
applause  was  veritably  deafening. 

I  have  related  elsewhere  at  some  length  my  ex- 
periences at  the  first  Paris  performance  of  Igor 
Strawinsky's  ballet,  The  Sacrifice  to  the  Spring, 
an  appeal  to  primitive  emotion  through  a  nerve- 
shattering  use  of  rhythm,  staged  in  ultra-modern 
style  by  Waslav  Nijinsky.  Chords  and  legs 
seemed  disjointed.  Flying  arms  synchronized 
[33] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

marvellously  with  screaming  clarinets.  But  this 
first  audience  would  not  permit  the  composer  to 
be  heard.  Cat-calls  and  hisses  succeeded  the 
playing  of  the  first  few  bars,  and  then  ensued  a 
battery  of  screams,  countered  by  a  foil  of  ap- 
plause. We  warred  over  art  (some  of  us  thought 
it  was  and  some  thought  it  wasn't).  The  oppo- 
sition was  bettered  at  times ;  at  any  rate  it  was  a 
more  thrilling  battle  than  Strauss  conceived  be- 
tween the  Hero  and  his  enemies  in  Heldeideben 
and  the  celebrated  scenes  from  Die  Meistersinger 
and  The  Rape  of  the  Lock  could  not  stand  the 
comparison.  Some  forty  of  the  protestants  were 
forced  out  of  the  theatre  but  that  did  not  quell 
the  disturbance.  The  lights  in  the  auditorium 
were  fully  turned  on  but  the  noise  continued  and 
I  remember  Mile.  Piltz  executing  her  strange  dance 
of  religious  hysteria  on  a  stage  dimmed  by  the 
blazing  light  in  the  auditorium,  seemingly  to  the 
accompaniment  of  the  disjointed  ravings  of  a 
mob  of  angry  men  and  women.  Little  by  little,  at 
subsequent  performances  of  the  work  the  audi- 
ences became  more  mannerly,  and  when  it  was  given 
in  concert  in  Paris  the  following  year  it  was  re- 
ceived with  applause. 

Some  of  my  readers  may  remember  the  demon- 
stration directed  (supposedly)  against  American 
[34] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

singers  when  the  Metropolitan  Opera  Company  in- 
vaded Paris  some  years  ago  for  a  spring  season. 
The  opening  opera  was  A'ida,  and  all  went  well  un- 
til the  first  scene  of  the  second  act,  in  which  the 
reclining  Amneris  chants  her  thoughts  while  her 
slaves  dance.  Here  the  audience  began  to  give 
signs  of  disapproval,  which  presently  broke  out 
into  open  hissing,  and  finally  into  a  real  hulla- 
baloo. Mme.  Homer,  nothing  daunted,  contin- 
ued to  sing.  She  afterwards  told  me  that  she  had 
never  sung  with  such  force  and  intensity.  And  in 
a  few  moments  she  broke  the  spell,  and  calmed  the 
riot. 

Arthur  Nikisch  once  noted  that  players  of  the 
bassoon  were  more  sensitive  than  the  other  mem- 
bers of  his  orchestra;  he  found  them  subject  to 
quick  fits  of  temper,  and  intolerant  of  criticism. 
He  attributed  this  to  the  delicate  mechanism  of 
the  instrument  which  required  the  nicest  appor- 
tionment of  breath.  Clarinet  players,  he  discov- 
ered, were  less  sensitive.  One  could  joke  with 
them  in  reason ;  while  horn  players  were  as  tracta- 
ble as  Newfoundland  dogs !  —  A  case  of  a  sensi- 
tive pianist  comes  to  mind,  brought  to  bay  by  as 
rude  an  audience  as  I  can  recall.  Mr.  Paderewski 
was  playing  Beethoven's  C  sharp  minor  sonata  at 
one  of  these  morning  musicales  arranged  at  the 
[35] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

smart  hotels  so  that  the  very  rich  may  see  more  in- 
timately the  well-known  artists  of  the  concert  and 
opera  stage,  when  some  women  started  to  go  out. 
In  his  following  number,  Couperin's  La  Bandoline, 
the  interruption  became  intolerable  and  he  stopped 
playing.  "  Those  who  do  not  wish  to  hear  me  will 
kindly  leave  the  room  immediately,"  he  said,  "  and 
those  who  wish  to  remain  will  kindly  take  their 
seats."  The  outflow  continued,  while  those  who 
remained  seated  began  to  hiss.  "  I  am  astonished 
to  find  people  in  New  York  leaving  while  an  artist 
is  playing,"  the  pianist  added.  Then  some  one 
started  to  applaud;  the  applause  deepened,  and 
finally  Mr.  Paderewski  consented  to  play  again 
and  took  his  place  on  the  bench  before  his  instru- 
ment. 

The  incident  was  the  result  of  the  pianist's  well- 
known  aversion  to  appearing  in  conjunction  with 
other  artists.  He  had  finally  agreed  to  do  so  on 
this  occasion  provided  he  would  be  allowed  to  play 
after  the  others  had  concluded  their  performances. 
There  had  been  many  recalls  for  the  singer  and 
violinist  who  preceded  him  and  it  was  well  after 
one  o'clock  (the  concert  had  begun  at  eleven)  be- 
fore he  walked  on  the  platform.  Now  one  o'clock 
is  a  very  late  hour  at  a  fashionable  morning  musi- 
cale.  Some  of  those  present  were  doubtless  hun- 
[36] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

gry;  others,  perhaps,  had  trains  to  catch;  while 
there  must  have  been  a  goodly  number  who  had 
heard  all  the  music  they  wanted  to  hear  that 
morning.  There  was  a  very  pretty  ending  to  the 
incident.  Once  he  had  begun,  Mr.  Paderewski 
played  for  an  hour  and  twenty  minutes,  and  the 
faithful  ones,  who  had  remained  seated,  applauded 
so  much  when  he  finally  rose  from  the  bench,  even 
after  he  had  added  several  numbers  to  the  printed 
programme,  that  the  echoes  of  the  clapping  hands 
accompanied  him  to  his  motor. 

I  have  reserved  for  the  last  a  description  of  a 
concert  given  at  the  Dal  Verme  Theatre  in  Milan 
by  the  Italian  Futurists.  The  account  is  culled 
from  the  "  Corriere  della  Sera  "  of  that  city,  and 
the  translation  is  that  which  appeared  in  "  Inter- 
national Music  and  Drama  " : 

"  At  the  Dal  Verme  a  Futurist  concert  of  *  in- 
tonarumori '  was  to  be  held  last  night,  but  instead 
of  this  there  was  an  uproarious  din  intoned  both 
by  the  public  and  the  Futurists  which  ended  in  a 
free-for-all  fight. 

"  In  a  speech  which  was  listened  to  with  suffi- 
cient attention,  Marinetti,  the  poet,  announced 
that  this  was  to  be  the  first  public  trial  of  a  new 
device  invented  by  Luigi  Russelo,  a  Futurist 
painter.  This  instrument  is  called  the  '  noise- 
[37] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

maker  '  and  its  purpose  is  to  render  a  new  kind  of 
music.  Modern  life  vibrates  with  all  sorts  of 
noises ;  music  therefore  must  render  this  sensation. 
This,  in  brief,  is  the  idea.  In  order  to  develop  it 
Russelo  had  invented  several  types  of  noise- 
makers,  each  of  which  renders  a  different  sound. 

"  After  Marinetti's  speech  the  curtain  went  up 
and  the  new  orchestra  appeared  in  all  its  glory 
amidst  the  bellowings  of  the  public.  The  famous 
*  noise-intonators  '  proved  to  be  made  out  of  a 
sort  of  bass-drum  with  an  immense  trumpet  at- 
tached to  it,  the  latter  looking  very  much  like  a 
gramaphone  horn.  Behind  the  instrument  sat  the 
players,  whose  only  function  was  to  turn  the  crank 
rhythmically  in  order  to  create  the  harmonic 
noise.  They  looked,  while  performing  this  agree- 
able task,  like  a  squad  of  knife-grinders.  But  it 
was  impossible  to  hear  the  music.  The  public 
was  unconditionally  intolerant.  We  only  caught 
here  and  there  a  faint  buzz  and  growl.  Then 
everything  was  drowned  in  the  billowing  seas  of 
howls,  jeers,  hisses,  and  cat-calls.  What  they 
were  hissing  at,  it  being  impossible  to  hear  the 
music,  was  not  quite  clear.  They  hissed  just  for 
the  fun  of  it.  It  was  a  case  of  art  for  art's  sake. 
Painter  Russelo,  however,  continued  undisturbed 
to  direct  his  mighty  battery  of  musical  howitzers 
[38] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

and  his  professors  kept  on  grinding  their  pieces 
with  a  beautiful  serenity  of  mind,  all  the  while 
the  tumult  increasing  to  redoubtable  proportions. 
The  consequence  was  that  those  who  went  to  the 
Dal  Verme  for  the  purpose  of  listening  to  Futurist 
music  had  to  give  up  all  hopes  and  resign  them- 
selves to  hear  the  bedlam  of  the  public. 

"  In  vain  did  Marinetti  attempt  to  speak,  beg- 
ging them  to  be  quiet  for  a  while  and  assuring 
them  that  they  would  be  allowed  a  whole  carnival 
of  howls  at  the  end  of  the  concert  —  the  public 
wanted  to  hiss  and  there  was  no  way  to  check  it. 
But  Russelo  kept  right  on.  He  conducted  with 
imperturbable  solemnity  the  three  pieces  we  were 
supposed  to  hear:  The  Awakening  of  a  Great 
City,  A  Dinner  on  a  Kursaal  Terrace,  and  A  Meet 
of  Automobiles  and  Aeroplanes.  Nobody  heard 
anything,  but  Russelo  rendered  everything  con- 
scientiously. The  only  thing  we  were  able  to  find 
out  about  Futurist  music  is  that  the  noise  of  the 
orchestra  is  by  no  means  too  loud,  or  at  least  not 
louder  than  impromptu  choruses. 

"  But  the  worst  was  reserved  for  the  middle  of 
the  third  piece.  The  exchange  of  hot  words  and 
very  old-fashioned  courtesies  had  now  become 
ultra-vivacious  and  was  being  punctuated  with 
several  projectiles  and  an  occasional  blow.  At 
[39] 


Music    and    Bad    Manners 

this  point,  Marinetti,  Boccioni,  Carra,  and  other 
Futurists  jumped  into  the  pit  and  began  to  dis- 
tribute all  sorts  of  blows  to  the  infuriated  spec- 
tators. The  new  Futurist  style  enables  us  to 
synthesize  the  scene.  Blows.  Carbineers.  In- 
spectors. Cushions  and  chairs  flying  about. 
Howls.  Public  standing  on  chairs.  Concert 
goes  on.  More  howls,  shrieks,  curses,  and  thun- 
derous insults.  Futurists  are  led  back  to  stage 
by  gendarmes.  Public  slowly  passes  out.  Mar- 
inetti and  followers  pass  out  before  public. 
Again  howls,  invectives,  guffaws,  and  fist  blows. 
Piazza  Cardusio.  More  blows.  Galleria.  Dit- 
to. Futurists  enter  Savini's  cafe  while  pugilistic 
matches  go  merrily  on.  Mob  attempts  to  storm 
stronghold.  Iron  gates  close.  Futurists  are 
shut  in,  in  good  condition,  save  few  torn  hats. 
Mob  slowly  calms  down  and  disperses.  The  end." 

New  York,  May,  1916. 


[40] 


Music     for     the     Movies 

"  O  Temporal  O  Movies!" 

W.  B.  Chase. 


Music    for    the    Movies 


DESPITE  the  fact  that  it  would  seem  that 
the  moving  picture  drama  had  opened  up 
new  worlds  to  the  modern  musician,  no  im- 
portant composer,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  has  as 
yet  turned  his  attention  to  the  writing  of  music 
for  the  films.  If  the  cinema  drama  is  in  its  in- 
fancy, as  some  would  have  us  believe,  then  we  may 
be  sure  that  the  time  is  not  far  distant  when  mov- 
ing picture  scores  will  take  their  places  on  the 
musicians'  book-shelves  alongside  those  of  operas, 
symphonies,  masses,  and  string  quartets.  In  the 
meantime,  entirely  ignorant  of  the  truth  (or  obliv- 
ious to  it,  or  merely  helpless,  as  the  case  may  be) 
that  writing  music  for  moving  pictures  is  a  new 
art,  which  demands  a  new  point  of  view,  the  di- 
rectors of  the  picture  theatres  are  struggling  with 
the  situation  as  best  they  may.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances it  is  remarkable,  on  the  whole,  how 
swiftly  and  how  well  the  demand  for  music  with 
the  silent  drama  has  been  met.  Certainly  the 
music  is  usually  on  a  level  with  (or  of  a  better 
quality  than)  the  type  of  entertainment  offered. 
But  the  directors  have  not  definitely  tackled  the 
problem ;  they  still  continue  to  try  to  force  old  wine 
into  new  bottles,  arranging  and  re-arranging  mel- 
[43] 


Music    for    the    Movies 

ody  and  harmony  which  was  contrived  for  quite 
other  occasions  and  purposes.  Even  when  scores 
have  been  written  for  pictures  the  result  has  not 
shown  any  imaginative  advance  over  the  arranged 
score.  It  is  strange,  but  it  has  occurred  to  no  one 
that  the  moving  picture  demands  a  new  kind  of 
music. 

The  composers,  I  should  imagine,  are  only  wait- 
ing to  be  asked  to  write  it.  Certainly  none  of 
them  has  ever  shown  any  hesitancy  about  compos- 
ing incidental  music  for  the  spoken  drama.  Men- 
delssohn wrote  strains  for  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  which  seemed  pledged  to  immortality  until 
Granville  Barker  ignored  them;  the  Wedding 
March  is  still  in  favour  in  Kankakee  and  Keokuk. 
Beethoven  illustrated  Goethe's  Egmont;  Sir  Ar- 
thur Sullivan  penned  a  score  for  The  Tempest; 
Schubert  was  inspired  to  put  down  some  of  his 
most  ravishing  notes  for  a  stupid  play  called  Rosa- 
munde;  Greig's  Peer  Gynt  music  is  more  often 
performed  than  the  play.  More  recent  instances 
of  incidental  music  for  dramas  are  Saint-Saens's 
score  for  Brieux's  La  Foi,  Mascagni's  for  The 
Eternal  City,  and  Richard  Strauss's  for  Le  Bour- 
geois Gentilhomme.  Is  it  necessary  to  continue 
the  list?  I  have  only,  after  all,  put  down  a  few 
of  the  obvious  examples  (passing  by  the  thousands 
[44] 


Music    for    the    Movies 

upon  thousands  of  scores  devised  by  lesser  compos- 
ers for  lesser  plays)  that  would  spring  at  once  to 
any  musician's  mind.  Of  course  it  has  usually 
been  the  poetic  drama  (do  we  ever  hear  Shake- 
speare or  Rostand  without  it?)  which  has  seemed 
to  call  for  incidental  music  but  it  has  accompanied 
(with  more  or  less  disastrous  consequences,  to  be 
sure)  the  unfolding  of  many  a  "  drawing-room  " 
play;  especially  during  the  eighties. 

When  the  first  moving  picture  was  exposed  on 
the  screen  it  seems  to  have  occurred  to  its  pro- 
jector at  once  that  some  kind  of  music  must  ac- 
company its  unreeling.  The  silence  evidently  ap- 
palled him.  A  moving  picture  is  not  unlike  a  bal- 
let in  that  it  depends  entirely  upon  action  (it  dif- 
fers from  a  ballet  in  that  the  action  is  not  neces- 
sarily rhythmic )  •. —  and  whoever  heard  of  a  ballet 
performed  without  music?  Sound  certainly  has 
its  value  in  creating  an  atmosphere  and  in  empha- 
sizing the  "  thrill  "  of  the  moving  picture,  espe- 
cially when  the  sound  is  selected  and  co-ordinated. 
It  may  also  divert  the  attention.  On  the  whole, 
more  photographed  plays  follow  the  general  lines 
of  Lady  Windemere's  Fan  or  Peg  o9  My  Heart 
than  of  poetic  dramas  such  as  Cymbeline  or  La 
Samaritaine.  The  problem  here,  however,  is  not 
the  same  as  in  the  spoken  drama.  For  in  motion 
[45] 


Music    for    the    Movies 

pictures  a  poetic  play  sheds  its  poetry  and  be- 
comes, like  its  neighbour,  a  skeleton  of  action. 
There  is  no  conceivable  distinction  in  the  "  mov- 
ies "  (beyond  one  created  by  preference,  or  taste, 
or  the  quality  of  the  performance  and  the  photog- 
raphy) between  Dante's  Inferno  and  a  picture  in 
which  the  beloved  Charles  Chaplin  looms  large. 
The  directors  of  the  moving  picture  companies 
have  tried  to  meet  this  problem;  that  they  have 
not  wholly  succeeded  so  far  is  not  entirely  their 
fault. 

It  is  no  easy  matter,  for  example,  in  a  theatre 
in  which  the  films  are  changed  daily  (this  is  the 
general  rule  even  in  the  larger  houses),  for  the  mu- 
sicians (or  musician)  to  arrange  a  satisfac- 
tory accompaniment  for  5,000  feet  of  action  which 
includes  everything  from  an  earthquake  in  Cuba 
to  a  dinner  in  Park  Lane,  and  it  is  scarcely  possi- 
ble, even  if  the  distributors  be  so  inclined  (as  they 
frequently  are  nowadays)  to  furnish  a  music  score 
which  will  answer  the  purposes  of  the  different 
sized  bands,  ranging  from  a  full  orchestra  to  an 
upright  piano,  solo.  As  for  the  pictures  without 
pre-arranged  scores,  the  orchestra  leaders  and  pi- 
anists must  do  the  best  they  can  with  them. 

In  some  houses  there  is  an  attitude  of  total  dis- 
respect paid  towards  the  picture  by  the  chef  d'or- 
[46] 


Music    for    the    Movies 

chestre.  He  arranges  his  musical  programme  as 
if  he  were  giving  a  concert,  not  at  all  with  a  view 
to  effectively  accompanying  the  picture.  In  a 
theatre  on  Second  Avenue  in  New  York,  for  exam- 
ple, I  have  heard  an  orchestra  play  the  whole  of 
Beethoven's  First  Symphony  as  an  accompaniment 
to  Irene  Fenwick's  performance  of  The  Woman 
Next  Door.  As  the  symphony  came  to  an  end  be- 
fore the  picture  it  was  supplemented  by  a  Wald- 
teufel  waltz,  Les  Patineurs.  The  result,  in  this 
instance,  was  not  altogether  incongruous  or  even 
particularly  displeasing,  and  it  occurred  to  me 
that  if  one  had  to  listen  to  music  while  the  third 
act  of  Hedda  Gabler  were  being  enacted  one  would 
prefer  to  hear  something  like  Boccherini's  cele- 
brated minuet  or  a  light  Mozart  dance  rather  than 
anything  ostensibly  contrived  to  fit  the  situation. 
In  the  latter  instance  the  result  would  be  sure  to 
be  unbearable  bathos. 

On  the  other  hand  there  are  certain  players  for 
pictures  who  remind  one  by  their  methods  of  the 
anxiety  of  Richard  Strauss  to  describe  every  pea- 
cock and  bean  mentioned  in  any  of  his  opera- 
books.  If  a  garden  is  exposed  on  the  screen  one 
hears  The  Flowers  That  Bloom  in  the  Spring;  a 
love  scene  is  the  signal  for  Un  Pen  d*  Amour;  a 
cross  or  any  religious  episode  suggests  The  Ros- 
[47] 


Music    for    the    Movies 

ary  to  these  ingenuous  musicians ;  Japan  brings  a 
touch  of  Madame  Butterfly;  a  proposal  of  mar- 
riage, 0  Promise  Me;  and  a  farewell,  Tosti's  Good- 
bye! This  expedient  of  appealing  through  the  in- 
tellect to  the  emotions,  it  may  be  admitted,  has 
the  stamp  of  approval  of  no  less  a  composer  than 
Richard  Wagner. 

Lacking  the  authority  of  real  moving  picture 
music  (which  a  new  composer  must  rise  to  invent) 
the  safest  way  (not  necessarily  the  best  way)  is 
the  middle  course  —  one  method  for  this,  another 
for  that.  One  of  the  difficulties  is  to  arrange  a 
music  score  for  a  theatre  with  a  large  orchestra, 
where  the  leader  must  plan  his  score  —  or  have  it 
planned  for  him  —  for  an  entire  picture  before  his 
orchestra  can  play  a  note.  Music  cues  must  be 
definite :  twenty  bars  of  Alexander's  Ragtime  Band, 
seventeen  of  The  Ride  of  the  Valkyries,  ten  of  Vissi 
d'Arte,  etc.  An  ingenious  young  man  has  discov- 
ered a  way  by  which  music  and  action  may  be  ex- 
actly synchronized.  I  feel  the  impulse  to  quote  ex- 
tensively from  the  somewhat  vivid  report  of  his 
achievement,  published  in  one  of  the  motion  picture 
weekly  journals:  "Here  was  a  man-sized  job  — 
how  to  measure  the  action  of  the  picture  to  the 
musical  score,  so  that  they  would  both  come  out 
equal  at  every  part  of  the  picture,  and  would  be 
[48] 


Music    for    the    Movies 

so  exact  that  any  orchestra  might  take  the  score 
and  follow  the  movement  of  the  play  with  absolute 
correctness.  It  was  a  question  primarily  of 
mathematics,  but  even  so  it  was  some  time  before 
a  system  of  computation  was  devised  before  the 
undertaking  was  gotten  down  to  a  certainty.  As 
an  illustration,  on  the  opening  night  of  one  of  the 
most  notable  photoplay  productions  now  before 
the  public,  the  orchestra,  notwithstanding  a  three 
weeks'  rehearsal,  found  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
picture  that  it  was  a  page  and  a  half  behind  the 
play's  action  in  the  musical  setting."  Then  we 
learn  that  Frank  Stadler  of  New  York  "  provided 
the  remedy  for  this  condition  of  affairs."  It  is 
impossible  to  resist  the  temptation  to  quote  fur- 
ther from  this  extremely  racy  account.  "  He  re- 
membered that  Beethoven  had  overcome  the  diffi- 
culty of  proper  timing  for  his  sonatas  by  a  me- 
chanical arrangement  known  as  the  metronome, 
invented  by  a  friend  of  his.  This  is  an  arrange- 
ment with  a  little  bell  attached  which  may  be  set 
for  the  movement  of  the  music  and  used  as  an 
exact  guide  to  the  right  measure,  the  bell  giving 
warning  at  the  expiration  of  each  period  so  that 
the  leader  knows  whether  he  is  in  time  or  not." 
Mr.  Stadler  then  began  the  measurement  of  a  film 
with  a  metronome,  a  stenographer,  and  a  watch. 
[49] 


Music    for    the    Movies 

He  found  that  the  film  ran  ten  feet  to  every  eight 
seconds  and  he  set  the  metronome  for  eight  second 
periods  accordingly.  "  The  stenographer  made  a 
note  of  the  action  of  the  picture  each  time  the 
bell  rang,  with  the  result  that  when  the  entire  pic- 
ture had  been  run  Mr.  Stadler  had  a  complete  rec- 
ord of  the  production.  All  that  was  necessary 
then  was  to  select  from  the  classics  and  the  popu- 
lar melodies  the  music  which  would  give  a  suitable 
atmosphere  and  a  harmonious  accompaniment  to 
the  theme  of  the  play,  so  synchronizing  the  music 
with  the  eight  second  periods  that  every  bar  of  it 
fitted  the  spirit  of  the  many  score  of  scenes  of  the 
production." 

The  single  man  orchestra,  the  player  of  the  up- 
right piano,  need  not  make  so  many  preparatory 
gestures.  He  may  with  impunity,  if  he  be  of  an 
inventive  turn  of  mind,  or  if  his  memory  be  good, 
improvise  his  score  as  the  picture  unreels  itself 
for  the  first  time  before  what  may  very  well  be 
his  astonished  vision ;  and,  after  that,  he  may  vary 
his  accompaniment,  as  the  shows  of  the  day  pro- 
gress, improving  it  here  or  there,  or  not,  as  the 
case  may  be,  keeping  generally  as  near  to  his  orig- 
inal performance  as  possible.  Of  course  he  puts 
a  good  deal  of  reliance  on  rum-ti-tum  shivery  pas- 
sages (known  to  orchestra  leaders  as  "  agits  " — 
[50] 


Music    for    the    Movies 

an  abbreviation  of  agitato;  a  page  or  two  of  them 
is  distributed  to  every  member  of  a  moving  picture 
band)  to  accompany  moments  of  excitement. 
This  music  you  will  remember  if  you  have  ever 
attended  a  performance  of  a  Lincoln  J.  Carter 
melodrama  in  which  a  train  was  wrecked,  or  a  hero 
rescued  from  the  teeth  of  a  saw,  or  a  heroine  pur- 
sued by  bloodhounds.  (Those  were  the  good  old 
days!)  Recently  I  heard  a  pianist  in  a  moving 
picture  house  on  Fourteenth  Street  in  New  York 
eke  out  a  half-hour  with  similar  poundings  on  two 
or  three  well-used  chords  (well  used  even  in  the 
time  of  Hadyn).  The  scenes  represented  the 
whole  of  a  two-act  opera,  and  the  ambitious  pian- 
ist was  trying  to  give  his  audience  the  effect  of 
singers  (principals  and  chorus)  and  orchestra 
with  his  three  chords.  (Shades  of  Arnold  Schoen- 
berg!) 

A  certain  periodical  devoted  to  the  interests  of 
the  moving  picture  trade,  conducts  a  department 
as  first  aid  to  the  musical  conductors  and  pianists 
who  figure  at  these  shows.  In  a  recent  number 
the  editor  of  this  department  gives  it  as  his  solemn 
opinion  that  musicians  who  read  fiction  are  the 
best  equipped  for  picture  playing.  Then,  with 
an  almost  tragic  parenthesis,  he  continues, 
"  Reading  fiction  is  the  last  diversion  that  the  av- 
[51] 


Music    for    the    Movies 

erage  musician  will  follow.  He  feels  that  all  the 
necessary  romance  is  to  be  found  in  his  music." 
Facts  are  dead,  says  this  editor  in  substance,  but 
fiction  is  living  and  should  make  you  weep.  When 
you  cry,  all  that  remains  for  you  to  do  is  to  think 
of  a  tune  which  will  synchronize  with  the  cause  of 
your  tears ;  this  will  serve  you  later  when  a  simi- 
lar scene  occurs  in  a  film  drama. 

There  is  one  tune  which  any  capable  moving 
picture  pianist  has  found  will  synchronize  with 
any  Keystone  picture  (for  the  benefit  of  the  un- 
initiated I  may  state  that  in  the  Keystone  farces 
some  one  gets  kicked  or  knocked  down  or  spat 
upon  several  times  in  almost  every  scene).  I  do 
not  know  what  the  tune  is,  but  wherever  Keystone 
pictures  are  shown,  in  Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa ;  Grand 
Rapids,  Michigan;  Chicago,  and  even  New  York, 
I  have  heard  it.  When  a  character  falls  into  the 
water  (and  at  least  ten  of  them  invariably  do) 
the  pianist  may  vary  the  tune  by  sitting  on  the 
piano  or  by  upsetting  a  chair.  In  one  theatre  I 
have  known  him  to  cause  glass  to  be  shattered  be- 
hind the  screen  at  a  moment  when  the  picture 
exposed  a  similar  scene.  How  Marinetti  would 
like  that! 

However,  the  day  of  this  sort  of  thing  is  rapidly 
[52] 


Music    for    the    Movies 

approaching  its  close,  I  venture  to  say.  Some 
of  the  firms  are  already  issuing  arranged  music 
scores  for  their  productions  (one  may  note  in 
passing  the  score  which  accompanied  Geraldine 
Farrar's  screen  performance  of  Carmen,  largely 
selected  from  the  music  of  Bizet's  opera,  and  Vic- 
tor Herbert's  original  score  for  The  Fall  of  a  Na- 
tion, a  score  which  does  not  take  full  advantage 
of  the  new  technique  of  the  cinema  drama).  It 
will  not  be  long  before  an  enterprising  director 
engages  an  enterprising  musician  to  compose  mu- 
sic for  a  picture.  For  the  same  reason  that  d'An- 
nunzio,  very  early  in  the  career  of  the  moving 
picture,  wrote  a  scenario  for  a  film,  I  should  not 
be  surprised  to  learn  that  Richard  Strauss  was 
under  contract  to  construct  an  accompaniment  to 
a  screened  drama.  It  will  be  very  loud  music  and 
it  will  require  an  orchestra  of  143  men  to  interpret 
it  and  probably  the  composer  himself  will  conduct 
the  first  performance,  and,  later,  excerpts  will  be 
given  by  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra  and  the 
critics  will  say,  in  spite  of  Philip  Hale's  diverting 
programme  notes,  that  this  music  should  never  be 
played  except  in  conjunction  with  the  picture  for 
which  it  was  written.  Mascagni  is  another  com- 
poser who  should  find  an  excellent  field  for  his  tal- 
[53] 


Music    for    the    Movies 

ent  in  writing  tone-poems  for  pictures,  although 
he  would  contrive  nothing  more  daring  than  a  well- 
arranged  series  of  illustrative  melodies. 

But  put  Igor  Strawinsky,  or  some  other  modern 
genius,  to  work  on  this  problem  and  see  what  hap- 
pens !  The  musician  of  the  future  should  revel  in 
the  opportunity  the  moving  picture  gives  him  to 
create  a  new  form.  This  form  differs  from  that 
of  the  incidental  music  for  a  play  in  that  the  flow 
of  tone  may  be  continuous  and  because  one  never 
needs  to  soften  the  accompaniment  so  that  the 
voices  may  be  heard ;  it  differs  from  the  music  for 
a  ballet  in  that  the  scene  shifts  constantly,  and 
consequently  the  time-signatures  and  the  mood 
and  the  key  must  be  as  constantly  shifting.  The 
swift  flash  from  scene  to  scene,  the  "  cut-back," 
the  necessary  rapidity  of  the  action,  all  are 
adapted  to  inspire  the  futurist  composer  to 
brilliant  effort;  a  tinkle  of  this  and  a  smash  of 
that,  without  "  working-out "  or  development ; 
illustration,  comment,  piquant  or  serious,  that's 
what  the  new  film  music  should  be.  The  ultimate 
moving  picture  score  will  be  something  more  than 
sentimental  accompaniment. 

New  York,  November  10,  1915. 
[54] 


Spain     and     Music 

//  faut  mediterraniser  la  musique" 

Nietzsche. 


Spain   and    Music 


IT  has  seemed  to  me  at  times  that  Oscar  Ham- 
merstein  was  gifted  with  almost  prophetic 
vision.  He  it  was  who  imagined  the  glory  of 
Times  (erstwhile  Longacre)  Square.  Theatre 
after  theatre  he  fashioned  in  what  was  then  a 
barren  district  —  and  presently  the  crowds  and 
the  hotels  came.  He  foresaw  that  French  opera, 
given  in  the  French  manner,  would  be  successful 
again  in  New  York,  and  he  upset  the  calculations 
of  all  the  wiseacres  by  making  money  even  with 
Pelleas  et  Melisande,  that  esoteric  collaboration 
of  Belgian  and  French  art,  which  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  season  of  1907-8  attained  a  record 
of  seven  performances  at  the  Manhattan  Opera 
House,  all  to  audiences  as  vast  and  as  devoted  as 
those  which  attend  the  sacred  festivals  of  Parsifal 
at  Bayreuth.  And  he  had  announced  for  pre- 
sentation during  the  season  of  1908-9  (and  again 
the  following  season)  a  Spanish  opera  called 
Dolores.  If  he  had  carried  out  his  intention  (why 
it  was  abandoned  I  have  never  learned;  the  scen- 
ery and  costumes  were  ready)  he  would  have  had 
another  honour  thrust  upon  him,  that  of  having 
been  beforehand  in  the  production  of  modern 
Spanish  opera  in  New  York,  an  honour  which,  in 
[57] 


Spain    and    Music 

the  circumstances,  must  go  to  Mr.  Gatti-Casazza. 
(Strictly  speaking,  Goyescas  was  not  the  first 
Spanish  opera  to  be  given  in  New  York,  although 
it  was  the  first  to  be  produced  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House.  11  Guarany,  by  Antonio  Carlos 
Gomez,  a  Portuguese  born  in  Brazil,  was  per- 
formed by  the  "Milan  Grand  Opera  Company" 
during  a  three  weeks'  season  at  the  Star  Theatre 
in  the  fall  of  1884.  An  air  from  this  opera  is 
still  in  the  repertoire  of  many  sopranos.  To  go 
still  farther  back,  two  of  Manuel  Garcia's  operas, 
sung  of  course  in  Italian,  VAmante  Astuto  and 
La  Figlia  dell* Aria,  were  performed  at  the  Park 
Theatre  in  1825  with  Maria  Garcia  —  later  to 
become  the  celebrated  Mme.  Malibran  —  in  the 
principal  roles.  More  recently  an  itinerant  Ital- 
ian opera-bouffe  company,  which  gravitated  from 
the  Park  Theatre  —  not  the  same  edifice  that 
harboured  Garcia's  company!  —  to  various  play- 
houses on  the  Bowery,  included  three  zarzuelas 
in  its  repertoire.  One  of  these,  the  popular  La 
Gran  Via,  was  announced  for  performance,  but 
my  records  are  dumb  on  the  subject  and  I  am  not 
certain  that  it  was  actually  given.  There  are 
probably  other  instances.)  Mr.  Hammerstein 
had  previously  produced  two  operas  about  Spain 
when  he  opened  his  first  Manhattan  Opera  House 
[58] 


Spain    and    Music 

on  the  site  now  occupied  by  Macy's  Department 
Store  with  Moszkowski's  Boabdil,  quickly  fol- 
lowed by  Beethoven's  Fidelio.  The  malaguefia 
from  Boabdil  is  still  a  favourite  morceau  with 
restaurant  orchestras,  and  I  believe  I  have  heard 
the  entire  ballet  suite  performed  by  the  Chicago 
Orchestra  under  the  direction  of  Theodore 
Thomas.  New  York's  real  occupation  by  the 
Spaniards,  however,  occurred  after  the  close  of 
Mr.  Hammerstein's  brilliant  seasons,  although 
the  earlier  vogue  of  Carmencita,  whose  celebrated 
portrait  by  Sargent  in  the  Luxembourg  Gallery 
in  Paris  will  long  preserve  her  fame,  the  interest 
in  the  highly-coloured  paintings  by  Sorolla  and 
Zuloaga,  many  of  which  are  still  on  exhibition  in 
private  and  public  galleries  in  New  York,  the  suc- 
cess here  achieved,  in  varying  degrees,  by  such 
singing  artists  as  Emilio  de  Gogorza,  Andrea  de 
Segurola,  and  Lucrezia  Bori,  the  performances  of 
the  piano  works  of  Albeniz,  Turina,  and  Gran- 
ados  by  such  pianists  as  Ernest  Schelling,  George 
Copeland,  and  Leo  Ornstein,  and  the  amazing 
Spanish  dances  of  Anna  Pavlowa  (who  in  at- 
tempting them  was  but  following  in  the  footsteps 
of  her  great  predecessors  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, Fanny  Elssler  and  Taglioni),  all  fanned  the 
flames. 

[59] 


Spain    and    Music 

The  winter  of  1915-16  beheld  the  Spanish 
blaze.  Enrique  Granados,  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished of  contemporary  Spanish  pianists  and 
composers,  a  man  who  took  a  keen  interest  in  the 
survival,  and  artistic  use,  of  national  forms,  came 
to  this  country  to  assist  at  the  production  of  his 
opera  Goyescas,  sung  in  Spanish  at  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House  for  the  first  time  anywhere, 
and  was  also  heard  several  times  here  in  his  inter- 
pretative capacity  as  a  pianist ;  Pablo  Casals,  the 
Spanish  'cellist,  gave  frequent  exhibitions  of  his 
finished  art,  as  did  Miguel  Llobet,  the  guitar  vir- 
tuoso; La  Argentina  (Senora  Paz  of  South 
America)  exposed  her  ideas,  somewhat  classicized, 
of  Spanish  dances ;  a  Spanish  soprano,  Maria 
Barrientos,  made  her  North  American  debut  and 
justified,  in  some  measure,  the  extravagant  re- 
ports which  had  been  spread  broadcast  about  her 
singing;  and  finally  the  decree  of  Paris  (still  valid 
in  spite  of  Paul  Poiret's  reported  absence  in  the 
trenches)  led  all  our  womenfolk  into  the  wearing 
of  Spanish  garments,  the  hip-hoops  of  the  Velas- 
quez period,  the  lace  flounces  of  Goya's  Duchess 
of  Alba,  and  the  mantillas,  the  combs,  and  the 
accroche-coeurs  of  Spain,  Spain,  Spain.  ...  In 
addition  one  must  mention  Mme.  Farrar's  brilliant 
success,  deserved  in  some  degree,  as  Carmen,  both 
[60] 


Spain    and    Music 

in  Bizet's  opera  and  in  a  moving  picture  drama ; 
Miss  Theda  Bara's  film  appearance  in  the  same 
part,  made  with  more  atmospheric  suggestion 
than  Mme.  Farrar's,  even  if  less  effective  as  an 
interpretation  of  the  moods  of  the  Spanish  cig- 
arette girl;  Mr.  Charles  Chaplin's  eccentric  bur- 
lesque of  the  same  play;  the  continued  presence 
in  New  York  of  Andrea  de  Segurola  as  an  opera 
and  concert  singer;  Maria  Gay,  who  gave  some 
performances  in  Carmen  and  other  operas;  and 
Lucrezia  Bori,  although  she  was  unable  to  sing 
during  the  entire  season  owing  to  the  unfortunate 
result  of  an  operation  on  her  vocal  cords ;  in  Chi- 
cago, Miss  Supervia  appeared  at  the  opera  and 
Mme.  Koutznezoff,  the  Russian,  danced  Spanish 
dances ;  and  at  the  New  York  Winter  Garden  Isa- 
bel Rodriguez  appeared  in  Spanish  dances  which 
quite  transcended  the  surroundings  and  made  that 
stage  as  atmospheric,  for  the  few  brief  moments  in 
which  it  was  occupied  by  her  really  entrancing 
beauty,  as  a  maison  de  danse  in  Seville.  The 
tango,  too,  in  somewhat  modified  form,  continued 
to  interest  "  ballroom  dancers,"  danced  to  music 
provided  in  many  instances  by  Sefior  Valverde,  an 
indefatigable  producer  of  popular  tunes,  some  of 
which  have  a  certain  value  as  music  owing  to  their 
close  allegiance  to  the  folk-dances  and  songs  of 
[61] 


Spain    and    Music 

Spain.  In  the  art-world  there  was  a  noticeable 
revival  of  interest  in  Goya  and  El  Greco. 

But  if  Mr.  Gatti-Casazza,  with  the  best  inten- 
tions in  the  world,  should  desire  to  take  advantage 
of  any  of  this  reclame  by  producing  a  series  of 
Spanish  operas  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House 
—  say  four  or  five  more — he  would  find  himself 
in  difficulty.  Where  are  they?  Several  of  the 
operas  of  Isaac  Albeniz  have  been  performed  in 
London,  and  in  Brussels  at  the  Theatre  de  la  Mon- 
naie,  but  would  they  be  liked  here?  There  is 
Felipe  Pedrell's  monumental  work,  the  trilogy, 
Los  Pireneos,  called  by  Edouard  Lopez-Chavarri 
"  the  most  important  work  for  the  theatre  written 
in  Spain  " ;  and  there  is  the  aforementioned  Do- 
lores. For  the  rest,  one  would  have  to  search 
about  among  the  zarzuelas ;  and  would  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House  be  a  suitable  place  for  the 
production  of  this  form  of  opera?  It  is  doubt- 
ful, indeed,  if  the  zarzuela  could  take  root  in  any 
theatre  in  New  York. 

The  truth  is  that  in  Spain  Italian  and  German 
operas  are  much  more  popular  than  Spanish, 
the  zarzuela  always  excepted;  and  at  Senor 
Arbos's  series  of  concerts  at  the  Royal  Opera  in 
Madrid  one  hears  more  Bach  and  Beethoven  than 
Albeniz  and  Pedrell.  There  is  a  growing  interest 
[62] 


Spain    and    Music 

in  music  in  Spain  and  there  are  indications  that 
some  day  her  composers  may  again  take  an  im- 
portant place  with  the  musicians  of  other  na- 
tionalities, a  place  they  proudly  held  in  the 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries.  However, 
no  longer  ago  than  1894,  we  find  Louis  Lombard 
writing  in  his  "  Observations  of  a  Musician  "  that 
harmony  was  not  taught  at  the  Conservatory  of 
Malaga,  and  that  at  the  closing  exercises  of  the 
Conservatory  of  Barcelona  he  had  heard  a  four- 
hand  arrangement  of  the  Tannhduser  march  per- 
formed on  ten  pianos  by  forty  hands !  Havelock 
Ellis  ("  The  Soul  of  Spain,"  1909)  affirms  that 
a  concert  in  Spain  sets  the  audience  to  chattering. 
They  have  a  savage  love  of  noise,  the  Spanish, 
he  says,  which  incites  them  to  conversation. 
Albert  Lavignac,  in  "  Music  and  Musicians " 
(William  Marchant's  translation),  says,  "We 
have  left  in  the  shade  the  Spanish  school,  which 
to  say  truth  does  not  exist."  But  if  one  reads 
what  Lavignac  has  to  say  about  Moussorgsky, 
one  is  likely  to  give  little  credence  to  such  ex- 
travagant generalities  as  the  one  just  quoted. 
The  Moussorgsky  paragraph  is  a  gem,  and  I  am 
only  too  glad  to  insert  it  here  for  the  sake  of 
those  who  have  not  seen  it :  "A  charming  and 
fruitful  melodist,  who  makes  up  for  a  lack  of 
[63] 


Spain    and    Music 

skill  in  harmonization  by  a  daring,  which  is  some- 
times of  doubtful  taste;  has  produced  songs, 
piano  music  in  small  amount,  and  an  opera,  Boris 
Godunow."  In  the  report  of  the  proceedings  of 
the  thirty-fourth  session  of  the  London  Musical 
Association  (1907-8)  Dr.  Thomas  Lea  South- 
gate  is  quoted  as  complaining  to  Sir  George  Grove 
because  under  "  Schools  of  Composition  "  in  the 
old  edition  of  Grove's  Dictionary  the  Spanish 
School  was  dismissed  in  twenty  lines.  Sir  George, 
he  says,  replied,  "  Well,  I  gave  it  to  Rockstro 
because  nobody  knows  anything  about  Spanish 
music."  —  The  bibliography  of  modern  Spanish 
music  is  indeed  indescribably  meagre,  although  a 
good  deal  has  been  written  in  and  out  of  Spain 
about  the  early  religious  composers  of  the  Ibe- 
rian peninsula. 

These  matters  will  be  discussed  in  due  course. 
In  the  meantime  it  has  afforded  me  some  amuse- 
ment to  put  together  a  list  (which  may  be  of 
interest  to  both  the  casual  reader  and  the  stu- 
dent of  music)  of  compositions  suggested  by  Spain 
to  composers  of  other  nationalities.  (This  list  is 
by  no  means  complete.  I  have  not  attempted 
to  include  in  it  works  which  are  not  more  or 
less  familiar  to  the  public  of  the  present  day; 
without  boundaries  it  could  easily  be  extended  into 
[64] 


Spain    and    Music 

a  small  volume.)  The  repertoire  of  the  concert 
room  and  the  opera  house  is  streaked  through  and 
through  with  Spanish  atmosphere  and,  on  the 
whole,  I  should  say,  the  best  Spanish  music  has 
not  been  written  by  Spaniards,  although  most  of 
it,  like  the  best  music  written  in  Spain,  is  based 
primarily  on  the  rhythm  of  folk-tunes,  dances  and 
songs.  Of  orchestral  pieces  I  think  I  must  put 
at  the  head  of  the  list  Chabrier's  rhapsody, 
Espana,  as  colourful  and  rhythmic  a  combination 
of  tone  as  the  auditor  of  a  symphony  concert  is 
often  bidden  to  hear.  It  depends  for  its  melody 
and  rhythm  on  two  Spanish  dances,  the  jota,  fast 
and  fiery,  and  the  malaguena,  slow  and  sensuous. 
These  are  true  Spanish  tunes;  Chabrier,  accord- 
ing to  report,  invented  only  the  rude  theme  given 
to  the  trombones.  The  piece  was  originally  writ- 
ten for  piano,  and  after  Chabrier's  death  was 
transformed  (with  other  music  by  the  same  com- 
poser) into  a  ballet,  Espana,  performed  at  the 
Paris  Opera,  1911.  Waldteufel  based  one  of  his 
most  popular  waltzes  on  the  theme  of  this  rhap- 
sody. Chabrier's  Habanera  for  the  pianoforte 
(1885)  was  his  last  musical  reminiscence  of  his 
journey  to  Spain.  It  is  French  composers 
generally  who  have  achieved  better  effects  with 
Spanish  atmosphere  than  men  of  other  nations, 
[65] 


Spain    and    Music 

and  next  to  Chabrier's  music  I  should  put  De- 
bussy's Iberia,  the  second  of  his  Images  (1910). 
It  contains  three  movements  designated  respec- 
tively as  "  In  the  streets  and  roads,"  "  The  per- 
fumes of  the  night,"  and  "  The  morning  of  a 
fete-day."  It  is  indeed  rather  the  smell  and  the 
look  of  Spain  than  the  rhythm  that  this  music 
gives  us,  entirely  impressionistic  that  it  is,  but 
rhythm  is  not  lacking,  and  such  characteristic 
instruments  as  castanets,  tambourines,  and  xylo- 
phones are  required  by  the  score.  "  Perfumes  of 
the  night "  comes  as  near  to  suggesting  odours 
to  the  nostrils  as  any  music  can  —  and  not  all  of 
them  are  pleasant  odours.  There  is  Rimsky- 
Korsakow's  Capriccio  Espagnole,  with  its  albor- 
ado  or  lusty  morning  serenade,  its  long  series  of 
cadenzas  (as  cleverly  written  as  those  of  Sche- 
herazade to  display  the  virtuosity  of  individual 
players  in  the  orchestra;  it  is  noteworthy  that 
this  work  is  dedicated  to  the  sixty-seven  musicians 
of  the  band  at  the  Imperial  Opera  House  of 
Petrograd  and  all  of  their  names  are  mentioned 
on  the  score)  to  suggest  the  vacillating  music  of 
a  gipsy  encampment,  and  finally  the  wild  fan- 
dango of  the  Asturias  with  which  the  work  comes 
to  a  brilliant  conclusion.  Engelbert  Humper- 
dinck  taught  the  theory  of  music  in  the  Conserva- 
[66] 


Spain    and    Music 

tory  of  Barcelona  for  two  years  (1885-6),  and 
one  of  the  results  was  his  Maurische  Rhapsodie 
in  three  parts  (1898-9),  still  occasionally  per- 
formed by  our  orchestras.  Lalo  wrote  his  Sym- 
phonie  Espagnole  for  violin  and  orchestra  for  the 
great  Spanish  virtuoso,  Pablo  de  Sarasate,  but 
all  our  violinists  delight  to  perform  it  (although 
usually  shorn  of  a  movement  or  two).  Glinka 
wrote  a  Jot  a  Ar  agones  e  and  A  Night  in  Madrid; 
he  gave  a  Spanish  theme  to  Balakirew  which  the 
latter  utilized  in  his  Overture  on  a  theme  of  a 
Spanish  March.  Liszt  wrote  a  Spanish  Rhap- 
sody for  pianoforte  (arranged  as  a  concert  piece 
for  piano  and  orchestra  by  Busoni)  in  which  he 
used  the  jota  of  Aragon  as  a  theme  for  vari- 
ations. Rubinstein's  Toreador  and  Andalusian 
and  Moszkowski's  Spanish  Dances  (for  four 
hands)  are  known  to  all  amateur  pianists  as 
Hugo  Wolf's  Spanisches  Liederbuch  and  Robert 
Schumann's  Spanisches  Liederspiel,  set  to  F. 
Giebel's  translations  of  popular  Spanish  ballads, 
are  known  to  all  singers.  I  have  heard  a  song 
of  Saint-Saens,  Guitares  et  Mandolines,  charm- 
ingly sung  by  Greta  Torpadie,  in  which  the  instru- 
ments of  the  title,  under  the  subtle  fingers  of  that 
masterly  accompanist,  Coenraad  V.  Bos,  were 
cleverly  imitated.  And  Debussy's  Mandolme  and 
[67] 


Spain    and    Music 

Delibes's  Les  F  tiles  de  Cadiz  (which  in  this  coun- 
try belongs  both  to  Emma  Calve  and  Olive  Frem- 
stad)  spring  instantly  to  mind.  Ravel's  Rapso- 
die  Espagnole  is  as  Spanish  as  music  could  be. 
The  Boston  Symphony  men  have  played  it  during 
the  season  just  past.  Ravel  based  the  habanera 
section  of  his  Rapsodie  on  one  of  his  piano  pieces. 
But  Richard  Strauss's  two  tone-poems  on  Spanish 
subjects,  Don  Juan  and  Don  Quixote,  have  not  a 
note  of  Spanish  colouring,  so  far  as  I  can  remem- 
ber, from  beginning  to  end.  Svendsen's  sym- 
phonic poem,  Zorahayda,  based  on  a  passage  in 
Washington  Irving's  "  Alhambra,"  is  Spanish  in 
theme  and  may  be  added  to  this  list  together  with 
Waldteufel's  Estudiantina  waltzes. 

Four  modern  operas  stand  out  as  Spanish  in 
subject  and  atmosphere.  I  would  put  at  the  top 
of  the  list  Zandonai's  Conchita;  the  Italian  com- 
poser has  caught  on  his  musical  palette  and  trans- 
ferred to  his  tonal  canvas  a  deal  of  the  lazy  rest- 
less colour  of  the  Iberian  peninsula  in  this  little 
master-work.  The  feeling  of  the  streets  and  pa- 
tios is  admirably  caught.  My  friend,  Pitts  San- 
born,  said  of  it,  after  its  solitary  performance  at 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  in  New  York  by 
the  Chicago  Opera  Company,  "  There  is  musical 
[68] 


Spain    and    Music 

atmosphere  of  a  rare  and  penetrating  kind ;  there 
is  colour  used  with  the  discretion  of  a  master; 
there  are  intoxicating  rhythms,  and  above  the  or- 
chestra the  voices  are  heard  in  a  truthful  musical 
speech.  .  .  .  Ever  since  Carmen  it  has  been  so 
easy  to  write  Spanish  music  and  achieve  supremely 
the  banal.  Here  there  is  as  little  of  the  Spanish 
of  convention  as  in  Debussy's  Iberia,  but  there  is 
Spain."  This  opera,  based  on  Pierre  Louys's 
sadic  novel,  "  La  Femme  et  le  Pantin,"  owed  some 
of  its  extraordinary  impression  of  vitality  to  the 
vivid  performance  given  of  the  title-role  by  Tar- 
quinia  Tarquini.  Raoul  Laparra,  born  in  Bor- 
deaux, but  who  has  travelled  much  in  Spain,  has 
written  two  Spanish  operas,  La  Habanera  and  La 
Jota,  both  named  after  popular  Spanish  dances 
and  both  produced  at  the  Opera-Comique  in 
Paris.  I  have  heard  La  Habanera  there  and 
found  the  composer's  use  of  the  dance  as  a  pivot 
of  a  tragedy  very  convincing.  Nor  shall  I  forget 
the  first  act-close,  in  which  a  young  man,  seated 
on  a  wall  facing  the  window  of  a  house  where  a 
most  bloody  murder  has  been  committed,  sings  a 
wild  Spanish  ditty,  accompanying  himself  on  the 
guitar,  crossing  and  recrossing  his  legs  in  com- 
plete abandonment  to  the  rhythm,  while  in  the 
house  rises  the  wild  treble  cry  of  a  frightened 
[69] 


Spain    and    Music 

child.  I  have  not  heard  La  Jot  a,  nor  have  I  seen 
the  score.  I  do  not  find  Emile  Vuillermoz  enthusi- 
astic in  his  review  ("  S.  I.  M.,"  May  15,  1911): 
"  Une  danse  trans  forme  le  premier  acte  en  un 
kaleidoscope  frenetique  et  le  combat  dans  Peglise 
doit  donner,  au  second,  dans  1'intention  de  1'auteur 
'  une  sensation  a  pic,  un  peu  comme  celle  d'un 
puits  ou  grouillerait  la  besogne  monstreuse  de 
larves  humaines.'  A  vrai  dire  ces  deux  tableaux  de 
cinematographe  papillotant,  corses  de  cris,  de 
hurlements  et  d'un  nombre  incalculable  de  coups  de 
feu  constituent  pour  le  spectateur  une  epreuve  phy- 
siquement  douloureuse,  une  hallucination  confuse 
et  inquietante,  un  cauchemar  assourdissant  qui  le 
conduisent  irresistiblement  a  1'hebetude  et  a  la 
migraine.  Dans  tout  cet  enfer  que  devient  la 
musique?  "  Perhaps  opera-goers  in  general  are 
not  looking  for  thrills  of  this  order;  the  fact  re- 
mains that  La  Jota  has  had  a  modest  career  when 
compared  with  La  Habanera,  which  has  even  been 
performed  in  Boston.  Carmen  is  essentially  a 
French  opera;  the  leading  emotions  of  the  char- 
acters are  expressed  in  an  idiom  as  French  as  that 
of  Gounod;  yet  the  dances  and  entr'actes  are 
Spanish  in  colour.  The  story  of  Carmen's  en- 
trance song  is  worth  retelling  in  Mr.  Philip  Male's 
words  ("  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra  Programme 
[70] 


Spain    and    Music 

Notes  ";  1914-15,  P.  287)  :  "  Mme.  Galli-Marie 
disliked  her  entrance  air,  which  was  in  6-8  time 
with  a  chorus.  She  wished  something  more  au- 
dacious, a  song  in  which  she  could  bring  into  play 
the  whole  battery  of  her  perversites  artistiques, 
to  borrow  Charles  Pigot's  phrase :  '  caressing 
tones  and  smiles,  voluptuous  inflections,  killing 
glances,  disturbing  gestures.'  During  the  re- 
hearsals Bizet  made  a  dozen  versions.  The  singer 
was  satisfied  only  with  the  thirteenth,  the  now  fa- 
miliar Habanera,  based  on  an  old  Spanish  tune 
that  had  been  used  by  Sebastian  Yradier.  This 
brought  Bizet  into  trouble,  for  Yradier's  pub- 
lisher, Heugel,  demanded  that  the  indebtedness 
should  be  acknowledged  in  Bizet's  score.  Yradier 
made  no  complaint,  but  to  avoid  a  lawsuit  or  a 
scandal,  Bizet  gave  consent,  and  on  the  first  page 
of  the  Habanera  in  the  French  edition  of  Carmen 
this  line  is  engraved :  *  Imitated  from  a  Spanish 
song,  the  property  of  the  publishers  of  Le  Mene- 
streU  " 

There  are  other  operas  the  scenes  of  which  are 
laid  in  Spain.  Some  of  them  make  an  attempt 
at  Spanish  colouring,  more  do  not.  Massenet 
wrote  no  less  than  five  operas  on  Spanish  subjects, 
Le  Cid,  Cherubm,  Don  Cesar  de  Bazan,  La  Navar- 
raise  and  Don  Quichotte  (Cervantes's  novel  has 
[71] 


Spain    and    Music 

frequently  lured  the  composers  of  lyric  dramas 
with  its  story ;  Clement  et  Larousse  give  a  long 
list  of  Don  Quixote  operas,  but  they  do  not  include 
one  by  Manuel  Garcia,  which  is  mentioned  in  John 
Towers's  compilation,  "  Dictionary-Catalogue  of 
Operas."  However,  not  a  single  one  of  these  lyric 
dramas  has  held  its  place  on  the  stage).  The 
Spanish  dances  in  Le  Cid  are  frequently  performed, 
although  the  opera  is  not.  The  most  famous  of 
the  set  is  called  simply  Aragonaise;  it  is  not  a  jota. 
Pleurez,  mes  yeux,  the  principal  air  of  the  piece, 
can  scarcely  be  called  Spanish.  There  is  a  de- 
lightful suggestion  of  the  jota  in  La  Navarraise. 
In  Don  Quichotte  la  belle  Dulcinee  sings  one  of  her 
airs  to  her  own  guitar  strummings,  and  much  was 
made  of  the  fact,  before  the  original  production  at 
Monte  Carlo,  of  Mme.  Lucy  Arbell's  lessons  on 
that  instrument.  Mary  Garden,  who  had  learned 
to  dance  for  Salome,  took  no  guitar  lessons  for 
Don  Quichotte.  But  is  not  the  guitar  an  an- 
achronism in  this  opera  ?  In  a  pamphlet  by  Sefior 
Cecilio  de  Roda,  issued  during  the  celebration  of 
the  tercentenary  of  the  publication  of  Cervantes's 
romance,  taking  as  its  subject  the  musical  refer- 
ences in  the  work,  I  find,  "  The  harp  was  the  aris- 
tocratic instrument  most  favoured  by  women  and 
it  would  appear  to  be  regarded  in  Don  Quixote  as 
[72] 


Spain    and    Music 

the  feminine  instrument  par  excellence."  Was 
the  guitar  as  we  know  it  in  existence  at  that 
epoch?  I  think  the  vihuela  was  the  guitar  of  the 
period.  .  .  .  Maurice  Ravel  wrote  a  Spanish  op- 
era, VHeure  Espagnole  (one  act,  performed  at 
the  Paris  Opera-Comique,  1911).  Octave  Sere 
("  Musiciens  fran£ais  d' Au j ourd'hui  ")  says  of  it: 
"  Les  principaux  traits  de  son  caractere  et  1'influ- 
ence  du  sol  natal  s'y  combinent  etrangement.  De 
Palliance  de  la  mer  et  du  Pays  Basque  (Ravel  was 
born  in  the  Basses-Pyrenees,  near  the  sea)  est  nee 
une  musique  a  la  fois  fluide  et  nerveusement  ryth- 
mee,  mobile,  chatoyante,  amie  du  pittoresque  et 
dont  le  trait  net  et  precis  est  plus  incisif  que  pro- 
fond."  Hugo  Wolf's  opera  Der  Corregidor  is 
founded  on  the  novel,  "  II  Sombrero  de  tres  Picos," 
of  the  Spanish  writer,  Pedro  de  Alarcon  (1833- 
91).  His  unfinished  opera  Manuel  Venegas  also 
has  a  Spanish  subject,  suggested  by  Alarcon's  "  El 
Nino  de  la  Bola."  Other  Spanish  operas  are  Bee- 
thoven's Fidelio,  Balfe's  The  Rose  of  Castille,  Ver- 
di's Ernani  and  11  Trovatore,  Rossini's  II  Barbiere 
di  Siviglia,  Mozart's  Don  Giovanni  and  Le  Nozze 
di  Figaro,  Weber's  Preciosa  (really  a  play  with  in- 
cidental music),  Dargomij sky's  The  Stone  Guest 
(Pushkin's  version  of  the  Don  Juan  story.  This 
opera,  by  the  way,  was  one  of  the  many  retouched 
[73] 


Spain    and    Music 

and  completed  by  Rimsky-Korsakow),  Reznicek's 
Donna  Diana  —  and  Wagner's  Parsifal!  The 
American  composer  John  Knowles  Paine's  opera 
Azara,  dealing  with  a  Moorish  subject,  has,  I 
think,  never  been  performed. 


II 

The  early  religious  composers  of  Spain  deserve 
a  niche  all  to  themselves,  be  it  ever  so  tiny,  as  in 
the  present  instance.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  some 
doubt  as  to  whether  their  inspiration  was  entirely 
peninsular,  or  whether  some  of  it  was  wafted  from 
Flanders,  and  the  rest  gleaned  in  Rome,  for  in 
their  service  to  the  church  most  of  them  migrated 
to  Italy  and  did  their  best  work  there.  It  is  not 
the  purpose  of  the  present  chronicler  to  devote 
much  space  to  these  early  men,  or  to  discuss  in  de- 
tail their  music.  There  are  no  books  in  English 
devoted  to  a  study  of  Spanish  music,  and  few  in 
any  language,  but  what  few  exist  take  good  care 
to  relate  at  considerable  length  (some  of  them  with 
frequent  musical  quotation)  the  state  of  music  in 
Spain  in  the  sixteenth,  seventeenth,  and  eighteenth 
centuries,  the  golden  period.  To  the  reader  who 
may  wish  to  pursue  this  phase  of  our  subject  I 
[74] 


Spain    and    Music 

offer  a  small  bibliography.  There  is  first  of  all 
A.  Soubies's  two  volumes,  "  Histoire  de  la  Mu- 
sique  d'Espagne,"  published  in  1889.  The  second 
volume  takes  us  through  the  eighteenth  century. 
The  religious  and  early  secular  composers  are 
catalogued  in  these  volumes,  but  there  is  little  at- 
tempt at  detail,  and  he  is  a  happy  composer  who 
is  awarded  an  entire  page.  Soubies  does  not  find 
occasion  to  pause  for  more  than  a  paragraph  on 
most  of  his  subjects.  Occasionally,  however,  he 
lightens  the  plodding  progress  of  the  reader,  as 
when  he  quotes  Father  Bermudo's  "  Declaracion 
de  Instrumentos  "  (154*8;  the  1555  edition  is  in 
the  Library  of  Congress  at  Washington): 
"  There  are  three  kinds  of  instruments  in  music. 
The  first  are  called  natural ;  these  are  men,  of 
whom  the  song  is  called  musical  harmony.  Others 
are  artificial  and  are  played  by  the  touch  —  such 
as  the  harp,  the  vihuela  (the  ancient  guitar,  which 
resembles  the  lute),  and  others  like  them;  the 
music  of  these  is  called  artificial  or  rhythmic.  The 
third  species  is  pneumatique  and  includes  instru- 
ments such  as  the  flute,  the  do^aine  (a  species  of 
oboe),  and  the  organ."  There  may  be  some  to 
dispute  this  ingenious  and  highly  original  classi- 
fication. The  best  known,  and  perhaps  the  most 
useful  (because  it  is  easily  accessible)  history  of 
[75] 


Spain    and    Music 

Spanish  music  is  that  written  by  Mariano  Soriano 
Fuertes,  in  four  volumes :  "  Historia  de  la  Musica 
Espanola  desde  la  venida  de  los  Fenicios  hasta  el 
aiio  de  1850  " ;  published  in  Barcelona  and  Madrid 
in  1855.  There  is  further  the  "  Diccionario  Tec- 
nico,  Historico,  y  Biografico  de  la  Musica,"  by 
Jose  Parada  y  Barreto  (Madrid,  1867).  This, 
of  course,  is  a  general  work  on  music,  but  Spain 
gets  her  full  due.  For  example,  a  page  and  a  half 
is  devoted  to  Beethoven,  and  nine  pages  to  Eslava. 
It  is  to  this  latter  composer  to  whom  we  must  turn 
for  the  most  complete  and  important  work  on 
Spanish  church  music :  "  Lira  Sacro-Hispana  " 
(Madrid,  1869),  in  ten  volumes,  with  voluminous 
extracts  from  the  composers'  works.  This  collec- 
tion of  Spanish  church  music  from  the  sixteenth 
century  through  the  eighteenth,  with  biographical 
notices  of  the  composers  is  out  of  print  and  rare 
(there  is  a  copy  in  the  Congressional  Library  at 
Washington).  As  a  complement  to  it  I  may  men- 
tion Felipe  PedrelPs  "  Hispaniae  Schola  Musica 
Sacra,"  begun  in  1894,  which  has  already  reached 
the  proportions  of  Eslava's  work.  Pedrell,  who 
was  the  master  of  Enrique  Granados,  has  also  is- 
sued a  fine  edition  of  the  music  of  Victoria. 

The  Spanish  composers  had  their  full  share  in 
the  process  of  crystallizing  music  into  forms  of 
[76] 


Spain    and    Music 

permanent  beauty  during  the  sixteenth  and  seven- 
teenth centuries.  Rockstro  asserts  that  during 
the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  century  nearly  all 
the  best  composers  for  the  great  Roman  choirs 
were  Spaniards.  But  their  greatest  achievement 
was  the  foundation  of  the  school  of  which  Pales- 
trina  was  the  crown.  On  the  music  of  their  own 
country  their  influence  is  less  perceptible.  I  think 
the  name  of  Cristofero  Morales  (1512-53)  is  the 
first  important  name  in  the  history  of  Spanish 
music.  He  preceded  Palestrina  in  Rome  and 
some  of  his  masses  and  motets  are  still  sung  in  the 
Papal  chapel  there  (and  in  other  Roman  Catholic 
edifices  and  by  choral  societies).  Francesco 
Guerrero  (1528—99;  these  dates  are  approximate) 
was  a  pupil  of  Morales.  He  wrote  settings  of  the 
Passion  choruses  according  to  St.  Matthew  and 
St.  John  and  numerous  masses  and  motets. 
Tomas  Luis  de  Victoria  is,  of  course,  the  greatest 
figure  in  Spanish  music,  and  next  to  Palestrina 
(with  whom  he  worked  contemporaneously)  the 
greatest  figure  in  sixteenth  century  music.  Sou- 
bies  writes :  "  One  might  say  that  on  his  musical 
palette  he  has  entirely  at  his  disposition,  in  some 
sort,  the  glowing  colour  of  Zurburan,  the  realistic 
and  transparent  tones  of  Velasquez,  the  ideal 
shades  of  Juan  de  Juares  and  Murillo.  His  mys- 
[77] 


Spain    and    Music 

ticism  is  that  of  Santa  Theresa  and  San  Juan  de 
la  Cruz."  The  music  of  Victoria  is  still  very 
much  alive  and  may  be  heard  even  in  New  York, 
occasionally,  through  the  medium  of  the  Musical 
Art  Society.  Whether  it  is  performed  in  churches 
in  America  or  not  I  do  not  know ;  the  Roman  choirs 
still  sing  it.  ... 

The  list  might  be  extended  indefinitely  .  .  .  but 
the  great  names  I  have  given.  There  are  Cabe- 
zon,  whom  Pedrell  calls  the  "  Spanish  Bach,"  Na- 
varro,  Caseda,  Comes,  Ribera,  Castillo,  Lobo,  Du- 
ron, Romero,  Juarez.  On  the  whole  I  think  these 
composers  had  more  influence  on  Rome  —  the 
Spanish  nature  is  more  reverent  than  the  Italian 
—  than  on  Spain.  The  modern  Spanish  compos- 
ers have  learned  more  from  the  folk-song  and 
dance  than  they  have  from  the  church  composers. 
However,  there  are  voices  which  dissent  from  this 
opinion.  G.  Tebaldini  ("  Rivista  Musicale,"  Vol. 
IV,  Pp.  267  and  494)  says  that  Pedrell  in  his 
studies  learned  much  which  he  turned  to  account  in 
the  choral  writing  of  his  operas.  And  Felipe  Ped- 
rell himself  asserts  that  there  is  an  unbroken  chain 
between  the  religious  composers  of  the  sixteenth 
century  and  the  theatrical  composers  of  the  seven- 
teenth. We  may  follow  him  thus  far  without 
believing  that  the  theatrical  composers  of  the  sev- 
[78] 


Spain    and    Music 

enteenth  century  had  too  great  an  influence  on  the 
secular  composers  of  the  present  day. 


Ill 

All  the  world  dances  in  Spain,  at  least  it  would 
seem  so,  in  reading  over  the  books  of  the  Marco 
Polos  who  have  made  voyages  of  discovery  on  the 
Iberian  peninsula.  Guitars  seem  to  be  as  common 
there  as  pea-shooters  in  New  England,  and  strum- 
ming seems  to  set  the  feet  a-tapping  and  voices 
a-singing,  what,  they  care  not.  (Havelock  Ellis 
says :  "  It  is  not  always  agreeable  to  the  Span- 
iard to  find  that  dancing  is  regarded  by  the  for- 
eigner as  a  peculiar  and  important  Spanish  insti- 
tution. Even  Valera,  with  his  wide  culture,  could 
not  escape  this  feeling ;  in  a  review  of  a  book  about 
Spain  by  an  American  author  entitled  *  The  Land 
of  the  Castanet ' —  a  book  which  he  recognized  as 
full  of  appreciation  for  Spain  —  Valera  resented 
the  title.  It  is,  he  says,  as  though  a  book  about 
the  United  States  should  be  called  '  The  Land  of 
Bacon.' ")  Oriental  colour  is  streaked  through 
and  through  the  melodies  and  harmonies,  many  of 
which  betray  their  Arabian  origin;  others  are 
flamenco,  or  gipsy.  The  dances,  almost  invaria- 
bly accompanied  by  song,  are  generally  in  3-4? 
[79] 


Spain    and    Music 

time  or  its  variants  such  as  6-8  or  3-8 ;  the  tango, 
of  course,  is  in  2-4.  But  the  dancers  evolve  the 
most  elaborate  inter-rhythms  out  of  these  simple 
measures,  creating  thereby  a  complexity  of  effect 
which  defies  any  comprehensible  notation  on  pa- 
per. As  it  is  on  this  fioriture,  if  I  may  be  per- 
mitted to  use  the  word  in  this  connection,  of  the 
dancer  that  the  sophisticated  composer  bases  some 
of  his  most  natural  and  national  effects,  I  shall 
linger  on  the  subject.  La  Argentina  has  re-ar- 
ranged many  of  the  Spanish  dances  for  purposes 
of  the  concert  stage,  but  in  her  translation  she  has 
retained  in  a  large  measure  this  interesting  com- 
plication of  rhythm,  marking  the  irregularity  of 
the  beat,  now  with  a  singularly  complicated  de- 
tonation of  heel-tapping,  now  with  a  sudden  bend 
of  a  knee,  now  with  the  subtle  quiver  of  an  eye- 
lash, now  with  a  shower  of  castanet  sparks  (an  in- 
strument which  requires  a  hard  tutelage  for  its 
complete  mastery ;  Richard  Ford  tells  us  that  even 
the  children  in  the  streets  of  Spain  rap  shells  to- 
gether, to  become  self-taught  artists  in  the  use  of 
it).  Chabrier,  in  his  visit  to  Spain  with  his  wife 
in  1882,  attempted  to  note  down  some  of  these 
rhythmic  variations  achieved  by  the  dancers  while 
the  musicians  strummed  their  guitars,  and  he  was 
partially  successful.  But  all  in  all  he  only  sue- 
[80] 


Spain    and    Music 

ceeded  in  giving  in  a  single  measure  each  varia- 
tion; he  did  not  attempt  to  weave  them  into  the 
intricate  pattern  which  the  Spanish  women  con- 
trive to  make  of  them. 

There  is  a  singular  similarity  to  be  observed  be- 
tween this  heel-tapping  and  the  complicated  drum- 
tapping  of  the  African  negroes  of  certain  tribes. 
In  his  book  "  Afro-American  Folksongs  "  H.  E. 
Krehbiel  thus  describes  the  musical  accompani- 
ment of  the  dances  in  the  Dahoman  Village  at 
the  World's  Columbian  Exposition  in  Chicago: 
"  These  dances  were  accompanied  by  choral  song 
and  the  rhythmical  and  harmonious  beating  of 
drums  and  bells,  the  song  being  in  unison.  The 
harmony  was  a  tonic  major  triad  broken  up 
rhythmically  in  a  most  intricate  and  amazingly  in- 
genious manner.  The  instruments  were  tuned 
with  excellent  justness.  The  fundamental  tone 
came  from  a  drum  made  of  a  hollowed  log  about 
three  feet  long  with  a  single  head,  played  by  one 
who  seemed  to  be  the  leader  of  the  band,  though 
there  was  no  giving  of  signals.  This  drum  was 
beaten  with  the  palms  of  the  hands.  A  variety  of 
smaller  drums,  some  with  one,  some  with  two 
heads,  were  beaten  variously  with  sticks  and  fin- 
gers. The  bells,  four  in  number,  were  of  iron  and 
were  held  mouth  upward  and  struck  with  sticks. 
[81] 


Spain    and    Music 

The  players  showed  the  most  remarkable  rhyth- 
mical sense  and  skill  that  ever  came  under  my  no- 
tice. Berlioz  in  his  supremest  effort  with  his 
army  of  drummers  produced  nothing  to  compare 
in  artistic  interest  with  the  harmonious  drumming 
of  these  savages.  The  fundamental  effect  was  a 
combination  of  double  and  triple  time,  the  former 
kept  by  the  singers,  the  latter  by  the  drummers, 
but  it  is  impossible  to  convey  the  idea  of  the 
wealth  of  detail  achieved  by  the  drummers  by 
means  of  exchange  of  the  rhythms,  syncopation  of 
both  simultaneously,  and  dynamic  devices.  Only 
by  making  a  score  of  the  music  could  this  have 
been  done.  I  attempted  to  make  such  a  score  by 
enlisting  the  help  of  the  late  John  C.  Filmore,  ex- 
perienced in  Indian  music,  but  we  were  thwarted 
by  the  players  who,  evidently  divining  our  purpose 
when  we  took  out  our  notebooks,  mischievously 
changed  their  manner  of  playing  as  soon  as  we 
touched  pencil  to  paper." 

The  resemblance  between  negro  and  Spanish 
music  is  very  noticeable.  Mr.  Krehbiel  says  that 
in  South  America  Spanish  melody  has  been  im- 
posed on  negro  rhythm.  In  the  dances  of  the  peo- 
ple of  Spain,  as  Chabrier  points  out,  the  melody 
is  often  practically  nil;  the  effect  is  rhythmic  (an 
effect  which  is  emphasized  by  the  obvious  harmonic 
[83] 


Spain    and    Music 

and  melodic  limitations  of  the  guitar,  which  in- 
variably accompanies  all  singers  and  dancers). 
If  there  were  a  melody  or  if  the  guitarists  played 
well  (which  they  usually  do  not)  one  could  not 
distinguish  its  contours  what  with  the  cries  of  Ole ! 
and  the  heel-beats  of  the  performers.  Spanish 
melodies,  indeed,  are  often  scraps  of  tunes,  like 
the  African  negro  melodies.  The  habanera  is  a 
true  African  dance,  taken  to  Spain  by  way  of 
Cuba,  as  Albert  Friedenthal  points  out  in  his  book, 
"  Musik,  Tanz,  und  Dichtung  bei  den  Kreolen 
Amerikas."  Whoever  was  responsible,  Arab,  ne- 
gro, or  Moor  (Havelock  Ellis  says  that  the  dances 
of  Spain  are  closely  allied  with  the  ancient  dances 
of  Greece  and  Egypt),  the  Spanish  dances  betray 
their  oriental  origin  in  their  complexity  of  rhythm 
(a  complexity  not  at  all  obvious  on  the  printed 
page,  as  so  much  of  it  depends  on  dancer,  guitar- 
ist, singer,  and  even  public!),  and  the  fioriture 
which  decorate  their  melody  when  melody  occurs. 
While  Spanish  religious  music  is  perhaps  not  dis- 
tinctively Spanish,  the  dances  invariably  display 
marked  national  characteristics;  it  is  on  these, 
then  (some  in  greater,  some  in  less  degree),  that 
the  composers  in  and  out  of  Spain  have  built  their 
most  atmospheric  inspirations,  their  best  pictures 
of  popular  life  in  the  Iberian  peninsula.  A  good 
[83] 


Spain    and    Music 

deal  of  the  interest  of  this  music  is  due  to  the  im- 
portant part  the  guitar  plays  in  its  construction ; 
the  modulations  are  often  contrary  to  all  rules  of 
harmony  and  (yet,  some  would  say)  the  music 
seems  to  be  effervescent  with  variety  and  fire.  Of 
the  guitarists  Richard  Ford  ("  Gatherings  from 
Spain")  says:  "The  performers  seldom  are 
very  scientific  musicians;  they  content  themselves 
with  striking  the  chords,  sweeping  the  whole  hand 
over  the  strings,  or  flourishing,  and  tapping  the 
board  with  the  thumb,  at  which  they  are  very  ex- 
pert. Occasionally  in  the  towns  there  is  some 
one  who  has  attained  more  power  over  this  un- 
grateful instrument;  but  the  attempt  is  a  failure. 
The  guitar  responds  coldly  to  Italian  words  and 
elaborate  melody,  which  never  come  home  to  Span- 
ish ears  or  hearts."  (An  exception  must  be  made 
in  the  case  of  Miguel  Llobet.  I  first  heard  him 
play  at  Pitts  Sanborn's  concert  at  the  Punch  and 
Judy  Theatre  (April  17,  1916)  for  the  benefit  of 
Hospital  28  in  Bourges,  France,  and  he  made  a 
deep  impression  on  me.  In  one  of  his  numbers, 
the  Spanish  Fantasy  of  Farrega,  he  astounded 
and  thrilled  me.  He  seemed  at  all  times  to  exceed 
the  capacity  of  his  instrument,  obtaining  a  variety 
of  colour  which  was  truly  amazing.  In  this  par- 
ticular number  he  not  only  plucked  the  keyboard 
[84] 


Spain    and    Music 

but  the  fingerboard  as  well,  in  intricate  and  rapid 
tempo;  seemingly  two  different  kinds  of  instru- 
ments were  playing.  But  at  all  times  he  variated 
his  tone ;  sometimes  he  made  the  instrument  sound 
almost  as  though  it  had  been  played  by  wind  and 
not  plucked.  Especially  did  I  note  a  suggestion 
of  the  bagpipe.  A  true  artist.  None  of  the  mu- 
sic, the  fantasy  mentioned,  a  serenade  of  Albeniz, 
and  a  Menuet  of  Tor,  was  particularly  interest- 
ing, although  the  Fantasia  contained  some  fasci- 
nating references  to  folk-dance  tunes.  There  is 
nothing  sensational  about  Llobet,  a  quiet  prim 
sort  of  man ;  he  sits  quietly  in  his  chair  and  makes 
music.  It  might  be  a  harp  or  a  'cello  —  no  striv- 
ing for  personal  effect.) 

The  Spanish  dances  are  infinite  in  number  and 
for  centuries  back  they  seem  to  form  part  and 
parcel  of  Spanish  life.  Discussion  as  to  how  they 
are  danced  is  a  feature  of  the  descriptions.  No 
two  authors  agree,  it  would  seem ;  to  a  mere  anno- 
tator  the  fact  is  evident  that  they  are  danced 
differently  on  different  occasions.  It  is  obvious 
that  they  are  danced  differently  in  different  prov- 
inces. The  Spaniards,  as  Richard  Ford  points 
out,  are  not  too  willing  to  give  information  to 
strangers,  frequently  because  they  themselves  lack 
the  knowledge.  Their  statemerts  are  often  mis- 
[85] 


Spain    and    Music 

leading,  sometimes  intentionally  so.  They  do  not 
understand  the  historical  temperament.  Until  re- 
cently many  of  the  art  treasures  and  archives  of 
the  peninsula  were  but  poorly  kept.  Those  who 
lived  in  the  shadow  of  the  Alhambra  admired  only 
its  shade.  It  may  be  imagined  that  there  has  been 
even  less  interest  displayed  in  recording  the  folk- 
dances.  "  Dancing  in  Spain  is  now  a  matter 
which  few  know  anything  about,"  writes  Have- 
lock  Ellis,  "  because  every  one  takes  it  for  granted 
that  he  knows  all  about  it;  and  any  question  on 
the  subject  receives  a  very  ready  answer  which  is 
usually  of  questionable  correctness."  Of  the  mu- 
sic of  the  dances  we  have  many  records,  and  that 
they  are  generally  in  3-4  time  or  its  variants  we 
may  be  certain.  As  to  whether  they  are  danced 
by  two  women,  a  woman  and  a  man,  or  a  woman 
alone,  the  authorities  do  not  always  agree.  The 
confusion  is  added  to  by  the  oracular  attitude  of 
the  scribes.  It  seems  quite  certain  to  me  that  this 
procedure  varies.  That  the  animated  picture  al- 
most invariably  possesses  great  fascination  there 
are  only  too  many  witnesses  to  prove.  I  myself 
can  testify  to  the  marvel  of  some  of  them,  set  to 
be  sure  in  strange  frames,  the  Feria  in  Paris,  for 
example ;  but  even  without  the  surroundings,  which 
Spanish  dances  demand,  the  diablerie,  the  shiver- 
[86] 


Spain    and    Music 

ing  intensity  of  these  fleshly  women,  always  wound 
tight  with  such  shawls  as  only  the  mistresses  of 
kings  might  wear  in  other  countries,  have  drawn 
taut  the  real  thrill.  It  is  dancing  which  enlists  the 
co-operation  not  only  of  the  feet  and  legs,  but  of 
the  arms  and,  in  fact,  the  entire  body. 

The  smart  world  in  Spain  to-day  dances  much 
as  the  smart  world  does  anywhere  else,  although  it 
does  not,  I  am  told,  hold  a  brief  for  our  tango, 
which  Mr.  Krehbiel  suggests  is  a  corruption  of  the 
original  African  habanera.  But  in  older  days 
many  of  the  dances,  such  as  the  pavana,  the  sara- 
bande,  and  the  gallarda,  were  danced  at  the  court 
and  were  in  favour  with  the  nobility.  (Although 
presumably  of  Italian  origin,  the  pavana  and  galj 
larda  were  more  popular  in  Spain  than  in  Rome. 
Fuertes  says  that  the  sarabande  was  invented  in 
the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  by  a  dancer 
called  Zarabanda  who  was  a  native  of  either  Seville 
or  Guayaquil.)  The  pavana,  an  ancient  dance  of 
grave  and  stately  measure,  was  much  in  vogue  in 
the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries.  An  ex- 
planation of  its  name  is  that  the  figures  executed 
by  the  dancers  bore  a  resemblance  to  the  semi- 
circular wheel-like  spreading  of  the  tail  of  a  pea- 
cock. The  gallarda  (French,  gaillard)  was  usu- 
ally danced  as  a  relief  to  the  pavana  (and  indeed 
[87] 


Spain    and    Music 

often  follows  it  in  the  dance-suites  of  the  classical 
composers  in  which  these  forms  all  figure).  The 
jacara,  or  more  properly  xacara,  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  was  danced  in  accompaniment  to  a  ro- 
mantic, swashbuckling  ditty.  The  Spanish  folias 
were  a  set  of  dances  danced  to  a  simple  tune  treated 
in  a  variety  of  styles  with  very  free  accompani- 
ment of  castanets  and  bursts  of  song.  Corelli  in 
Rome  in  1700  published  twenty-four  variations  in 
this  form,  which  have  been  played  in  our  day  by 
Fritz  Kreisler  and  other  violinists. 

The  names  of  the  modern  Spanish  dances  are 
often  confused  in  the  descriptions  offered  by  ob- 
serving travellers,  for  the  reasons  already  noted. 
Hundreds  of  these  descriptions  exist,  and  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  choose  the  most  telling  of  them.  Gertrude 
Stein,  who  has  spent  the  last  two  years  in  Spain, 
has  noted  the  rhythm  of  several  of  these  dances  by 
the  mingling  of  her  original  use  of  words  with  the 
ingratiating  medium  of  vers  libre.  She  has  suc- 
ceeded, I  think,  better  than  some  musicians  in  sug- 
gesting the  intricacies  of  the  rhythm.  I  should 
like  to  transcribe  one  of  these  attempts  here,  but 
that  I  have  not  the  right  to  do  as  I  have  only  seen 
them  in  manuscript ;  they  have  not  yet  appeared  in 
print.  These  pieces  are  in  a  sense  the  thing  it- 
self —  I  shall  have  to  fall  back  on  descriptions  of 
[88] 


Spain    and    Music 

the  thing.  The  tirana,  a  dance  common  to  the 
province  of  Andalusia,  is  accompanied  by  song. 
It  has  a  decided  rhythm,  affording  opportunities 
for  grace  and  gesture,  the  women  toying  with  their 
aprons,  the  men  flourishing  hats  and  handker- 
chiefs. The  polo,  or  ole,  is  now  a  gipsy  dance. 
Mr.  Ellis  asserts  that  it  is  a  corruption  of  the 
sarabande !  He  goes  on  to  say,  "  The  so-called 
gipsy  dances  of  Spain  are  Spanish  dances  which 
the  Spaniards  are  tending  to  relinquish  but  which 
the  gipsies  have  taken  up  with  energy  and  skill." 
(This  theory  might  be  warmly  contested.)  The 
bolero,  a  comparatively  modern  dance,  came  to 
Spain  through  Italy.  Mr.  Philip  Hale  points  out 
the  fact  that  the  bolero  and  the  cachucha  (which, 
by  the  way,  one  seldom  hears  of  nowadays)  were 
the  popular  Spanish  dances  when  Mesdames  Favi- 
ani  and  Dolores  Tesrai,  and  their  followers,  Mile. 
Noblet  and  Fanny  Elssler,  visited  Paris.  Fanny 
Elssler  indeed  is  most  frequently  seen  pictured  in 
Spanish  costume,  and  the  cachucha  was  danced  by 
her  as  often,  I  fancy,  as  Mme.  Pavlowa  dances  Le 
Cygne  of  Saint-Saens.  Anna  de  Camargo,  who 
acquired  great  fame  as  a  dancer  in  France  in  the 
early  eighteenth  century,  was  born  in  Brussels  but 
was  of  Spanish  descent.  She  relied,  however,  on 
the  Italian  classic  style  for  her  success  rather  than 
[89] 


Spain    and    Music 

on  national  Spanish  dances.  The  seguidilla  is  a 
gipsy  dance  which  has  the  same  rhythm  as  the 
bolero  but  is  more  animated  and  stirring.  Exam- 
ples of  these  dances,  and  of  the  jota,  fandango, 
and  the  sevillana,  are  to  be  met  with  in  the  compo- 
sitions listed  in  the  first  section  of  this  article,  in 
the  appendices  of  Soriano  Fuertes's  "  History  of 
Spanish  Music,"  in  Grove's  Dictionary,  in  the 
numbers  of  "  S.  I.  M."  in  which  the  letters  of  Em- 
manuel Chabrier  occur,  and  in  collections  made  by 
P.  Laconic,  published  in  Paris. 

The  jota  is  another  dance  in  3-4  time.  Every 
province  in  Spain  has  its  own  jota,  but  the  most 
famous  variations  are  those  of  Aragon,  Valencia, 
and  Navarre.  It  is  accompanied  by  the  guitar, 
the  bandarria  (similar  to  the  guitar),  small  drum, 
castanets,  and  triangle.  Mr.  Hale  says  that  its 
origin  in  the  twelfth  century  is  attributed  to  a 
Moor  named  Alben  Jot  who  fled  from  Valencia  to 
Aragon.  "The  jota,"  he  continues,  "is  danced 
not  only  at  merrymakings  but  at  certain  religious 
festivals  and  even  in  watching  the  dead.  One 
called  the  '  Natividad  del  Senor '  (nativity  of  our 
Lord)  is  danced  on  Christmas  eve  in  Aragon,  and 
is  accompanied  by  songs,  and  jotas  are  sung  and 
danced  at  the  crossroads,  invoking  the  favour  of 
[90] 


Spain    and    Music 

the  Virgin,  when  the  festival  of  Our  Lady  del  Pilar 
is  celebrated  at  Saragossa." 

Havelock  Ellis's  description  of  the  jota  is  worth 
reproducing:  "The  Aragonaise  jota,  the  most 
important  and  typical  dance  outside  Andalusia,  is 
danced  by  a  man  and  a  woman,  and  is  a  kind  of 
combat  between  them;  most  of  the  time  they  are 
facing  each  other,  both  using  castanets  and  ad- 
vancing and  retreating  in  an  apparently  aggres- 
sive manner,  the  arms  alternately  slightly  raised 
and  lowered,  and  the  legs,  with  a  seeming  attempt 
to  trip  the  partner,  kicking  out  alternately  some- 
what sidewise,  as  the  body  is  rapidly  supported 
first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other.  It  is  a 
monotonous  dance,  with  immense  rapidity  and  vi- 
vacity in  its  monotony,  but  it  has  not  the  delib- 
erate grace  and  fascination,  the  happy  audacities 
of  Andalusian  dancing.  There  is,  indeed,  no 
faintest  suggestion  of  voluptuousness  in  it,  but  it 
may  rather  be  said,  in  the  words  of  a  modern  poet, 
Salvador  Rueda,  to  have  in  it  '  the  sound  of  hel- 
mets and  plumes  and  lances  and  banners,  the  roar- 
ing of  cannon,  the  neighing  of  horses,  the  shock  of 
swords.' ' 

Chabrier,  in  his  astounding  and  amusing  letters 
from  Spain,  gives  us  vivid  pictures  and  interesting 
[91] 


Spain    and    Music 

information.  This  one,  written  to  his  friend, 
Edouard  Moulle,  from  Granada,  November  4, 
1882,  appeared  in  "  S.  I.  M."  April  15,  1911  (I 
have  omitted  the  musical  illustrations,  which,  how- 
ever, possess  great  value  for  the  student)  :  "  In  a 
month  I  must  leave  adorable  Spain  .  .  .  and  say 
good-bye  to  the  Spaniards, —  because,  I  say  this 
only  to  you,  they  are  very  nice,  the  little  girls !  I 
have  not  seen  a  really  ugly  woman  since  I  have 
been  in  Andalusia :  I  do  not  speak  of  the  feet,  they 
are  so  small  that  I  have  never  seen  them ;  the  hands 
are  tiny  and  well-kept  and  the  arms  of  an  ex- 
quisite contour ;  I  speak  only  of  what  one  can  see, 
but  they  show  a  good  deal ;  add  the  arabesques,  the 
side-curls,  and  other  ingenuities  of  the  coiffure, 
the  inevitable  fan,  the  flower  and  the  comb  in  the 
hair,  placed  well  behind,  the  shawl  of  Chinese 
crepe,  with  long  fringe  and  embroidered  in  flowers, 
knotted  around  the  figure,  the  arm  bare,  and  the 
eye  protected  by  eyelashes  which  are  long  enough 
to  curl;  the  skin  of  dull  white  or  orange  colour, 
according  to  the  race,  all  this  smiling,  gesticulat- 
ing, dancing,  drinking,  and  careless  to  the  last  de- 
gree. .  .  . 

"  That  is  the  Andalusian. 

"  Every  evening  we  go  with  Alice  to  the  cafe- 
concerts  where  the  malaguenas,  the  Soledas,  the 
[92] 


Spain    and    Music 

Sapateados,  and  the  Peteneras  are  sung;  then  the 
dances,  absolutely  Arab,  to  speak  truth;  if  you 
could  see  them  wriggle,  un joint  their  hips,  contor- 
tion, I  believe  you  would  not  try  to  get  away !  .  .  . 
At  Malaga  the  dancing  became  so  intense  that  I 
was  compelled  to  take  my  wife  away ;  it  wasn't  even 
amusing  any  more.  I  can't  write  about  it,  but  I 
remember  it  and  I  will  describe  it  to  you. —  I  have 
no  need  to  tell  you  that  I  have  noted  down  many 
things;  the  tango,  a  kind  of  dance  in  which  the 
women  imitate  the  pitching  of  a  ship  (le  tang  age 
du  navire)  is  the  only  dance  in  2  time;  all  the  oth- 
ers, all,  are  in  3-4  (Seville)  or  in  3-8  (Malaga  and 
Cadiz);  —  in  the  North  it  is  different,  there  is 
some  music  in  5-8,  very  curious.  The  2-4  of  the 
tango  is  always  like  the  habanera ;  this  is  the  pic- 
ture :  one  or  two  women  dance,  two  silly  men  play 
it  doesn't  matter  what  on  their  guitars,  and  five 
or  six  women  howl,  with  excruciating  voices  and  in 
triplet  figures  impossible  to  note  down  because 
they  change  the  air  —  every  instant  a  new  scrap 
of  tune.  They  howl  a  series  of  figurations  with 
syllables,  words,  rising  voices,  clapping  hands 
which  strike  the  six  quavers,  emphasizing  the  third 
and  the  sixth,  cries  of  Anda!  Anda!  La  Salud! 
eso  es  la  Maraquita!  gracia,  nationidad!  Baila, 
la  chiquilla!  Anda!  Anda!  Consuelo!  Ole,  la 
[93] 


Spain    and    Music 

Lola,  ole  la  Carmen !  que  gracia !  que  elegancia !  all 
that  to  excite  the  young  dancer.  It  is  vertiginous 
—  it  is  unspeakable! 

"  The  Sevillana  is  another  thing :  it  is  in  3-4< 
time  (and  with  castanets).  .  .  .  All  this  becomes 
extraordinarily  alluring  with  two  curls,  a  pair  of 
castanets  and  a  guitar.  It  is  impossible  to  write 
down  the  malaguena.  It  is  a  melopoeia,  however, 
which  has  a  form  and  which  always  ends  on  the 
dominant,  to  which  the  guitar  furnishes  3-8  time, 
and  the  spectator  (when  there  is  one)  seated  be- 
side the  guitarist,  holds  a  cane  between  his  legs 
and  beats  the  syncopated  rhythm;  the  dancers 
themselves  instinctively  syncopate  the  measures  in 
a  thousand  ways,  striking  with  their  heels  an  un- 
believable number  of  rhythms.  ...  It  is  all 
rhythm  and  dance:  the  airs  scraped  out  by  the 
guitarist  have  no  value;  besides,  they  cannot  be 
heard  on  account  of  the  cries  of  Anda!  la  chi- 
quilla!  que  gracia!  que  elegancia!  Anda!  Ole! 
Ole!  la  chiquirritita !  and  the  more  the  cries  the 
more  the  dancer  laughs  with  her  mouth  wide  open, 
and  turns  her  hips,  and  is  mad  with  her 
body.  .  .  ." 

As  it  is  on  these  dances  that  composers  inva- 
riably base  their  Spanish  music  (not  alone  Albeniz, 
Chapi,  Breton,  and  Granados,  but  Chabrier, 
[9*] 


Spain    and    Music 

Ravel,  Laparra,  and  Bizet,  as  well)  we  may  linger 
somewhat  longer  on  their  delights.  The  following 
compelling  description  is  from  Richard  Ford's 
highly  readable  "  Gatherings  from  Spain " : 
"  The  dance  which  is  closely  analogous  to  the 
Ghowasee  of  the  Egyptians,  and  the  Nautch  of 
the  Hindoos,  is  called  the  Ole  by  Spaniards,  the 
Romalis  by  their  gipsies;  the  soul  and  essence  of 
it  consists  in  the  expression  of  a  certain  sentiment, 
one  not  indeed  of  a  very  sentimental  or  correct 
character.  The  ladies,  who  seem  to  have  no 
bones,  resolve  the  problem  of  perpetual  motion, 
their  feet  having  comparatively  a  sinecure,  as  the 
whole  person  performs  a  pantomime,  and  trembles 
like  an  aspen  leaf;  the  flexible  form  and  Terp- 
sichore figure  of  a  young  Andalusian  girl  —  be 
she  gipsy  or  not  —  is  said,  by  the  learned,  to 
have  been  designed  by  nature  as  the  fit  frame  for 
her  voluptuous  imagination. 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  scholar  and  classical 
commentator  will  every  moment  quote  Martial, 
etc.,  when  he  beholds  the  unchanged  balancing  of 
hands,  raised  as  if  to  catch  showers  of  roses,  the 
tapping  of  the  feet,  and  the  serpentine  quivering 
movements.  A  contagious  excitement  seizes  the 
spectators,  who,  like  Orientals,  beat  time  with 
their  hands  in  measured  cadence,  and  at  every 
[95] 


Spain    and    Music 

pause  applaud  with  cries  and  clappings.  The 
damsels,  thus  encouraged,  continue  in  violent 
action  until  nature  is  all  but  exhausted;  then 
aniseed  brandy,  wine,  and  alpisteras  are  handed 
about,  and  the  fete,  carried  on  to  early  dawn, 
often  concludes  in  broken  heads,  which  here  are 
called  '  gipsy's  fare.'  These  dances  appear,  to  a 
stranger  from  the  chilly  north,  to  be  more  marked 
by  energy  than  by  grace,  nor  have  the  legs  less 
to  do  than  the  body,  hips,  and  arms.  The  sight 
of  this  unchanged  pastime  of  antiquity,  which  ex- 
cites the  Spaniard  to  frenzy,  rather  disgusts  an 
English  spectator,  possibly  from  some  national 
malorganization,  for,  as  Moliere  says,  *  1'Angle- 
terre  a  produit  des  grands  hommes  dans  les 
sciences  et  les  beaux  arts,  mais  pas  un  grand 
danseur  —  allez  lire  Phistoire.'  "  (A  fact  as  true 
in  our  day  as  it  was  in  Moliere's.) 

On  certain  days  the  sevillana  is  danced  before 
the  high  altar  of  the  cathedral  at  Seville.  The 
Reverend  Henry  Cart  de  Lafontaine  ("  Proceed- 
ings of  the  Musical  Association  " ;  London,  thirty- 
third  session,  1906-7)  gives  the  following  account 
of  it,  quoting  a  "French  author":  "While 
Louis  XIII  was  reigning  over  France,  the  Pope 
heard  much  talk  of  the  Spanish  dance  called  the 
4  Sevillana.'  He  wished  to  satisfy  himself,  by  ac- 
[96] 


Spain    and    Music 

tual  eye-witness,  as  to  the  character  of  this  dance, 
and  expressed  his  wish  to  a  bishop  of  the  diocese  of 
Seville,  who  every  year  visited  Rome.  Evil 
tongues  make  the  bishop  responsible  for  the  pri- 
mary suggestion  of  the  idea.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
the  bishop,  on  his  return  to  Seville,  had  twelve 
youths  well  instructed  in  all  the  intricate  measures 
of  this  Andalusian  dance.  He  had  to  choose 
youths,  for  how  could  he  present  maidens  to  the 
horrified  glance  of  the  Holy  Father?  When  his 
little  troop  was  thoroughly  schooled  and  per- 
fected, he  took  the  party  to  Rome,  and  the  audi- 
ence was  arranged.  The  *  Sevillana  *  was  danced 
in  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  Vatican.  The  Pope 
warmly  complimented  the  young  executants,  who 
were  dressed  in  beautiful  silk  costumes  of  the 
period.  The  bishop  humbly  asked  for  permission 
to  perform  this  dance  at  certain  fetes  in  the 
cathedral  church  at  Seville,  and  further  pleaded 
for  a  restriction  of  this  privilege  to  that  church 
alone.  The  Pope,  hoist  by  his  own  petard,  did 
not  like  to  refuse,  but  granted  the  privilege  with 
this  restriction,  that  it  should  only  last  so  long  as 
the  costumes  of  the  dancers  were  wearable.  Need- 
less to  say,  these  costumes  are,  therefore,  objects 
of  constant  repair,  but  they  are  supposed  to 
retain  their  identity  even  to  this  day.  And  this 
[97] 


Spain    and    Music 

is  the  reason  why  the  twelve  boys  who  dance  the 
6  Sevillana  *  before  the  high  altar  in  the  cathedral 
on  certain  feast  days  are  dressed  in  the  costume 
belonging  to  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII." 

This  is  a  very  pretty  story,  but  it  is  not  un- 
contradicted.  .  .  .  Has  any  statement  been  made 
about  Spanish  dancing  or  music  which  has  been 
allowed  to  go  uncontradicted?  Look  upon  that 
picture  and  upon  this :  "  As  far  as  it  is  possible 
to  ascertain  from  records,"  says  Rhoda  G.  Ed- 
wards in  the  "  Musical  Standard,"  "  this  dance 
would  seem  always  to  have  been  in  use  in  Seville 
cathedral;  when  the  town  was  taken  from  the 
Moors  in  the  thirteenth  century  it  was  undoubtedly 
an  established  custom  and  in  1428  we  find  the  six 
boys  recognized  as  an  integral  part  of  the  chapter 
by  Pope  Eugenius  IV.  The  dance  is  known  as 
the  (sic)  'Los  Seises,'  or  dance  of  the  six  boys 
who,  with  four  others,  dance  it  before  the  high 
altar  at  Benediction  on  the  three  evenings  before 
Lent  and  in  the  octaves  of  Corpus  Christi  and  La 
Purissima  (the  conception  of  Our  Lady).  The 
dress  of  the  boys  is  most  picturesque,  page  cos- 
tumes of  the  time  of  Philip  III  being  worn,  blue 
for  La  Purissima  and  red  satin  doublets  slashed 
with  blue  for  the  other  occasion;  white  hats  with 
blue  and  white  feathers  are  also  worn  whilst 
[98] 


Spain    and    Music 

dancing.  The  dance  is  usually  of  twenty-five 
minutes'  duration  and  in  form  seems  quite  unique, 
not  resembling  any  of  the  other  Spanish  dance- 
forms,  or  in  fact  those  of  any  other  country. 
The  boys  accompany  the  symphony  on  castanets 
and  sing  a  hymn  in  two  parts  whilst  dancing." 

From  another  author  we  learn  that  religious 
dancing  is  to  be  seen  elsewhere  in  Spain  than  at 
Seville  cathedral.  At  one  time,  it  is  said  to  have 
been  common.  The  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  of  the 
Virgin  at  Montserrat  were  wont  to  dance,  and 
dancing  took  place  in  the  churches  of  Valencia, 
Toledo,  and  Jurez.  Religious  dancing  continued 
to  be  common,  especially  in  Catalonia  up  to  the 
seventeenth  century.  An  account  of  the  dance 
in  the  Seville  cathedral  may  be  found  in  "  Los 
Espanoles  Pintados  por  si  Mismos "  (pages 
£87-91). 

This  very  incomplete  and  rambling  record  of 
Spanish  dancing  should  include  some  mention  of 
the  fandango.  The  origin  of  the  word  is  ob- 
scure, but  the  dance  is  obviously  one  of  the  gayest 
and  wildest  of  the  Spanish  dances.  Like  the 
malaguena  it  is  in  3-8  time,  but  it  is  quite  dif- 
ferent in  spirit  from  that  sensuous  form  of  terp- 
sichorean  enjoyment.  La  Argentina  informs  me 
that  "  fandango  "  in  Spanish  suggests  very  much 
[99] 


Spain    and    Mu  sic 

what  "  bachanale "  does  in  English  or  French. 
It  is  a  very  old  dance,  and  may  be  a  survival  of 
a  Moorish  dance,  as  Desrat  suggests.  Mr.  Philip 
Hale  found  the  following  account  of  it  somewhere : 

"Like  an  electric  shock,  the  notes  of  the 
fandango  animate  all  hearts.  Men  and  women, 
young  and  old,  acknowledge  the  power  of  this  air 
over  the  ears  and  soul  of  every  Spaniard.  The 
young  men  spring  to  their  places,  rattling  cas- 
tanets, or  imitating  their  sound  by  snapping  their 
fingers.  The  girls  are  remarkable  for  the  wil- 
lowy languor  and  lightness  of  their  movements, 
the  voluptuousness  of  their  attitudes  —  beating 
the  exactest  time  with  tapping  heels.  Partners 
tease  and  entreat  and  pursue  each  other  by  turns. 
Suddenly  the  music  stops,  and  each  dancer  shows 
his  skill  by  remaining  absolutely  motionless, 
bounding  again  in  the  full  life  of  the  fandango  as 
the  orchestra  strikes  up.  The  sound  of  the  gui- 
tar, the  violin,  the  rapid  tic-tac  of  heels 
(taconeos),  the  crack  of  fingers  and  castanets, 
the  supple  swaying  of  the  dancers,  fill  the  specta- 
tors with  ecstasy. 

"  The  music  whirls  along  in  a  rapid  triple  time. 

Spangles  glitter;  the  sharp   clank  of  ivory  and 

ebony  castanets  beats  out  the  cadence  of  strange, 

throbbing,     deafening     notes  —  assonances     un- 

[100] 


Spain    and    Music 

known  to  music,  but  curiously  characteristic, 
effective,  and  intoxicating.  Amidst  the  rustle  of 
silks,  smiles  gleam  over  white  teeth,  dark  eyes 
sparkle  and  droop,  and  flash  up  again  in  flame. 
All  is  flutter  and  glitter,  grace  and  animation  — 
quivering,  sonorous,  passionate,  seductive.  Ole! 
Ole!  Faces  beam  and  burn.  Ole!  Ole! 

"  The  bolero  intoxicates,  the  fandango  in- 
flames." 

It  can  be  well  understood  that  the  study  of 
Spanish  dancing  and  its  music  must  be  carried  on 
in  Spain.  Mr.  Ellis  tells  us  why :  "  Another 
characteristic  of  Spanish  dancing,  and  especially 
of  the  most  typical  kind  called  flamenco,  lies  in  its 
accompaniments,  and  particularly  in  the  fact  that 
under  proper  conditions  all  the  spectators  are 
themselves  performers.  .  .  .  Thus  it  is  that  at 
the  end  of  a  dance  an  absolute  silence  often  falls, 
with  no  sound  of  applause:  the  relation  of  per- 
formers and  public  has  ceased  to  exist.  .  .  .  The 
finest  Spanish  dancing  is  at  once  killed  or  degraded 
by  the  presence  of  an  indifferent  or  unsympathetic 
public,  and  that  is  probably  why  it  cannot  be 
transplanted,  but  remains  local." 

At  the  end  of  a  dance  an  absolute  silence  often 
falls.  ...  I  am  again  in  an  underground  cafe 
in  Amsterdam.  It  is  the  eve  of  the  Queen's  birth- 
[101] 


Spain    and    Music 

day,  and  the  Dutch  are  celebrating.  The  low, 
smoke-wreathed  room  is  crowded  with  students, 
soldiers,  and  women.  Now  a  weazened  female 
takes  her  place  at  the  piano,  on  a  slightly  raised 
platform  at  one  side  of  the  room.  She  begins  to 
play.  The  dancing  begins.  It  is  not  woman  with 
man;  the  dancing  is  informal.  Some  dance  to- 
gether, and  some  dance  alone;  some  sing  the 
melody  of  the  tune,  others  shriek,  but  all  make  a 
noise.  Faster  and  faster  and  louder  and  louder 
the  music  is  pounded  out,  and  the  dancing  becomes 
wilder  and  wilder.  A  tray  of  glasses  is  kicked 
from  the  upturned  palm  of  a  sweaty  waiter. 
Waiter,  broken  glass,  dancer,  all  lie,  a  laughing 
heap,  on  the  floor.  A  soldier  and  a  woman  stand 
in  opposite  corners,  facing  the  corners ;  then  with- 
out turning,  they  back  towards  the  middle  of  the 
room  at  a  furious  pace ;  the  collision  is  appalling. 
Hand  in  hand  the  mad  dancers  encircle  the  room, 
throwing  confetti,  beer,  anything.  A  heavy  stein 
crushes  two  teeth  —  the  wound  bleeds  —  but  the 
dancer  does  not  stop.  Noise  and  action  and 
colour  all  become  synonymous.  There  is  no 
escape  from  the  force.  I  am  dragged  into  the 
circle.  Suddenly  the  music  stops.  All  the 
dancers  stop.  The  soldier  no  longer  looks  at  the 
woman  by  his  side ;  not  a  word  is  spoken.  People 
[102] 


Spain    and    Music 

lumber  towards  chairs.  The  woman  looks  for  a 
glass  of  water  to  assuage  the  pain  of  her  bleeding 
mouth.  I  think  Jaques-Dalcroze  is  right  when 
he  seeks  to  unite  spectator  and  actor,  drama  and 
public. 

IV 

In  the  preceding  section  I  may  have  too 
strongly  insisted  upon  the  relation  of  the  folk- 
song to  the  dance.  It  is  true  that  the  two  are 
seldom  separated  in  performance  (although  not 
all  songs  are  danced;  for  example,  the  canas  and 
play  eras  of  Andalusia).  However,  most  of  the 
folk-songs  of  Spain  are  intended  to  be  danced; 
they  are  built  on  dance-rhythms  and  they  bear 
the  names  of  dances.  Thus  the  jota  is  always 
danced  to  the  same  music,  although  the  variations 
are  great  at  different  times  and  in  different 
provinces.  It  is,  of  course,  when  the  folk-songs 
are  danced  that  they  make  their  best  effect,  in  the 
polyrhythm  achieved  by  the  opposing  rhythms  of 
guitar-player,  dancer,  and  singer.  When  there  is 
no  dancer  the  defect  is  sometimes  overcome  by 
some  one  tapping  a  stick  on  the  ground  in  imita- 
tion of  resounding  heels. 

Blind  beggars  have  a  habit  of  singing  the  songs, 
in  certain  provinces,  with  a  wealth  of  florid  orna- 
[103] 


Spain    and    Music 

ment,  such  ornament  as  is  always  associated  with 
oriental  airs  in  performance,  and  this  ornament 
still  plays  a  considerable  role  when  the  vocalist 
becomes  an  integral  part  of  the  accompaniment 
for  a  dancer.  Chabrier  gives  several  examples  of 
it  in  one  of  his  letters.  In  the  circumstances  it 
can  readily  be  seen  that  Spanish  folk-songs  writ- 
ten down  are  pretty  bare  recollections  of  the  real 
thing,  and  when  sung  by  singers  who  have  no 
knowledge  of  the  traditional  manner  of  perform- 
ing them  they  are  likely  to  sound  fairly  banal. 
The  same  thing  might  be  said  of  the  negro  folk- 
songs of  America,  or  the  folk-songs  of  Russia  or 
Hungary,  but  with  much  less  truth,  for  the  folk- 
songs of  these  countries  usually  possess  a  melodic 
interest  which  is  seldom  inherent  in  the  folk-songs 
of  Spain.  To  make  their  effect  they  must  be 
performed  by  Spaniards,  as  nearly  as  possible 
after  the  manner  of  the  people.  Indeed,  their 
spirit  and  their  polyrhythmic  effects  are  much 
more  essential  to  their  proper  interpretation  than 
their  melody,  as  many  witnesses  have  pointed  out. 
Spanish  music,  indeed,  much  of  it,  is  actually 
unpleasant  to  Western  ears;  it  lacks  the  sad 
monotony  and  the  wailing  intensity  of  true  orien- 
tal music ;  much  of  it  is  loud  and  blaring,  like  the 
hot  sunglare  of  the  Iberian  peninsula.  However, 
[104] 


Spain    and    Music 

many  a  Western  or  Northern  European  has  found 
pleasure  in  listening  by  the  hour  to  the  strains, 
which  often  sound  as  if  they  were  improvised,  sung 
by  some  beggar  or  mountaineer. 

The  collections  of  these  songs  are  not  in  any 
sense  complete  and  few  of  them  attempt  more  than 
a  collocation  of  the  songs  of  one  locality  or  people. 
Deductions  have  been  drawn.  For  example  it  is 
noted  that  the  Basque  songs  are  irregular  in 
melody  and  rhythm  and  are  further  marked  by 
unusual  tempos,  5-8,  or  7-4.  In  Aragon  and 
Navarre  the  popular  song  (and  dance)  is  the 
jota;  in  Galicia,  the  seguidilla;  the  Catalonian 
songs  resemble  the  folk-tunes  of  Southern  France. 
The  Andalusian  songs,  like  the  dances  of  that 
province,  are  the  most  beautiful  of  all,  often  truly 
oriental  in  their  rhythm  and  floridity.  In  Spain 
the  gipsy  has  become  an  integral  part  of  the 
popular  life,  and  it  is  difficult  at  times  to  deter- 
mine what  is  flamenco  and  what  is  Spanish.  How- 
ever, collections  (few  to  be  sure)  have  been  at- 
tempted of  gipsy  songs. 

Elsewhere  in  this  rambling  article  I  have 
touched  on  the  viUancicos  and  the  early  song- 
writers. To  do  justice  to  these  subjects  would 
require  a  good  deal  more  space  and  a  different 
intention.  Those  who  are  interested  in  them  may 
[105] 


Spain    and    Music 

pursue  these  matters  in  Pedrell's  various  works. 
The  most  available  collection  of  Spanish  folk- 
tunes  is  that  issued  by  P.  Lacome  and  J.  Puig  y 
Alsubide  (Paris,  1872).  There  are  several  col- 
lections of  Basque  songs ;  Demofilo's  "  Coleccion 
de  Cantos  Flamencos"  (Seville,  1881),  Cecilio 
Ocon's  collection  of  Andalusian  folk-songs,  and 
F.  Rodriguez  Marin's  "  Cantos  Populares  Es- 
panoles"  (Seville,  1882-3)  may  also  be  men- 
tioned. 


After  the  bullfight  the  most  popular  form  of 
amusement  in  Spain  is  the  zarzuela,  the  only 
distinctive  art-form  which  Spanish  music  has 
evolved,  but  there  has  been  no  progress ;  the  form 
has  not  changed,  except  perhaps  to  degenerate, 
since  its  invention  in  the  early  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. Soriano  Fuertes  and  other  writers  have 
devoted  pages  to  grieving  because  Spanish  com- 
posers have  not  taken  occasion  to  make  something 
grander  and  more  important  out  of  the  zarzuela. 
The  fact  remains  that  they  have  not,  although, 
small  and  great  alike,  they  have  all  taken  a  hand 
at  writing  these  entertainments.  But  as  they 
found  the  zarzuela,  so  they  have  left  it.  It  must 
be  conceded  that  the  form  is  quite  distinct  from 
[106] 


Spain    and    Music 

that  of  opera  and  should  not  be  confused  with  it. 
And  the  Spaniards  are  probably  right  when  they 
assert  that  the  zarzuela  is  the  mother  of  the 
French  opera-bouffe.  At  least  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  Offenbach  and  Lecocq  and  their  pre- 
cursors owe  something  of  the  germ  of  their  in- 
spiration to  the  Spanish  form.  To-day  the  mel- 
ody chests  of  the  zarzuela  markets  are  plundered 
to  find  tunes  for  French  revues,  and  such  popular 
airs  as  La  Paraguaya  and  Y  .  .  .  Como  le  Vdf 
were  originally  danced  and  sung  in  Spanish  the- 
atres. The  composer  of  these  airs,  J.  Valverde 
fils,  indeed  found  the  French  market  so  good  that 
he  migrated  to  Paris,  and  for  some  time  has  been 
writing  musique  melangee  .  .  .  une  moitie  de 
chaque  nation.  So  La  Rose  de  Grenade,  com- 
posed for  Paris,  might  have  been  written  for 
Spain,  with  slight  melodic  alterations  and  tauro- 
machian  allusions  in  the  book. 

The  zarzuela  is  usually  a  one-act  piece 
(although  sometimes  it  is  permitted  to  run  into 
two  or  more  acts)  in  which  the  music  is  freely 
interrupted  by  spoken  dialogue,  and  that  in  turn 
gives  way  to  national  dances.  Very  often  the 
entire  score  is  danced  as  well  as  sung.  The  sub- 
ject is  usually  comic  and  often  topical,  although 
it  may  be  serious,  poetic,  or  even  tragic.  The 
[107] 


Spain    and    Music 

actors  often  introduce  dialogue  of  their  own, 
"  gagging  "  freely ;  sometimes  they  engage  in  long 
impromptu  conversations  with  members  of  the 
audience.  They  also  embroider  on  the  music  after 
the  fashion  of  the  great  singers  of  the  old  Italian 
opera  (Dr.  de  Lafontaine  asserts  that  Spanish 
audiences,  even  in  cabarets,  demand  embroidery 
of  this  sort).  The  music  is  spirited  and  lively, 
and  in  the  dances,  Andalusian,  flamenco,  or  Se- 
villan,  as  the  case  may  be,  it  attains  its  best  re- 
sults. H.  V.  Hamilton,  in  his  essay  on  the  sub- 
ject in  Grove's  Dictionary,  says,  "  The  music  is 
.  .  .  apt  to  be  vague  in  form  when  the  national 
dance  and  folk-song  forms  are  avoided.  The 
orchestration  is  a  little  blatant."  It  will  be  seen 
that  this  description  suits  Granados's  Goyescas 
(the  opera),  which  is  on  its  safest  ground  during 
the  dances  and  becomes  excessively  vague  at  other 
times;  but  Goyescas  is  not  a  zarzuela,  because 
there  is  no  spoken  dialogue.  Otherwise  it  bears 
the  earmarks.  A  zarzuela  stands  somewhere  be- 
tween a  French  revue  and  opera-comique.  It  is 
usually,  however,  more  informal  in  tone  than  the 
latter  and  often  decidedly  more  serious  than  the 
former.  All  the  musicians  in  Spain  since  the  form 
was  invented  (excepting,  of  course,  certain  ex- 
clusively religious  composers),  and  most  of  the 
[108] 


Spain    and    Music 

poets  and  playwrights,  have  contributed  numerous 
examples.  Thus  Calderon  wrote  the  first  zarzuela, 
and  Lope  de  Vega  contributed  words  to  enter- 
tainments much  in  the  same  order.  In  our  day 
Spam's  leading  dramatist,  Echegaray  (died  1916), 
has  written  one  of  the  most  popular  zarzuelas, 
Gigantes  y  Cabezudos  (the  music  by  Caballero). 
The  subject  is  the  fiesta  of  Santa  Maria  del  Pilar. 
It  has  had  many  a  long  run  and  is  often  revived. 
Another  very  popular  zarzuela,  which  was  almost, 
if  not  quite,  heard  in  New  York,  is  La  Gran  Via 
(by  Valverde,  pere),  which  has  been  performed  in 
London  in  extended  form.  The  principal  theatres 
for  the  zarzuela  in  Madrid  are  (or  were  until  re- 
cently) that  of  the  Calle  de  Jovellanos,  called  the 
Teatro  de  Zarzuela,  and  the  Apolo.  Usually 
four  separate  zarzuelas  are  performed  in  one  eve- 
ning before  as  many  audiences. 

La  Gran  Via,  which  in  some  respects  may  be 
considered  a  typical  zarzuela,  consists  of  a  string 
of  dance-tunes,  with  no  more  homogeneity  than 
their  national  significance  would  suggest.  There 
is  an  introduction  and  polka,  a  waltz,  a  tango,  a 
jota,  a  mazurka,  a  schottische,  another  waltz,  and 
a  two-step  (paso-doble) .  The  tunes  have  little 
distinction;  nor  can  the  orchestration  be  consid- 
ered brilliant.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  noise  and 
[109] 


Spain    and    Music 

variety  of  rhythm,  and  when  presented  correctly 
the  effect  must  be  precisely  that  of  one  of  the 
dance-halls  described  by  Chabrier.  The  zarzuela, 
to  be  enjoyed,  in  fact,  must  be  seen  in  Spain. 
Like  Spanish  dancing  it  requires  a  special  audi- 
ence to  bring  out  its  best  points.  There  must  be 
a  certain  electricity,  at  least  an  element  of  sym- 
pathy, to  carry  the  thing  through  successfully. 
Examination  of  the  scores  of  zarzuelas  (many  of 
them  have  been  printed  and  some  of  them  are  to 
be  seen  in  our  libraries)  will  convince  any  one  that 
Mr.  Ellis  is  speaking  mildly  when  he  says  that 
the  Spaniards  love  noise.  However,  the  combi- 
nation of  this  noise  with  beautiful  women,  dancing, 
elaborate  rhythm,  and  a  shouting  audience,  seems 
to  almost  equal  the  cafe-concert  dancing  and  the 
tauromachian  spectacles  in  Spanish  popular  af- 
fection. (Of  course,  as  I  have  suggested,  there 
are  zarzuelas  more  serious  melodically  and  dra- 
matically ;  but  as  La  Gran  Via  is  frequently  men- 
tioned by  writers  as  one  of  the  most  popular 
examples,  it  may  be  selected  as  typical  of  the 
larger  number  of  these  entertainments.) 

H.  V.  Hamilton  says  that  the  first  performance 

of  a  zarzuela  took  place  in  1628  (Pedrell  gives 

the  date  as  October  29,  1629),  during  the  reign 

of  Felipe  IV,  in  the  Palace  of  the  Zarzuela  (so 

[110] 


Spain    and    Music 

called  because  it  was  surrounded  by  zarzas, 
brambles).  It  was  called  El  Jar  dm  de  Falerina; 
the  text  was  by  the  great  Calderon  and  the  music 
by  Juan  Risco,  chapelmaster  of  the  cathedral  at 
Cordova,  according  to  Mr.  Hamilton,  who  doubt- 
less follows  Soriano  Fuertes  on  this  detail. 
Soubies,  following  the  more  modern  studies  of 
Pedrell,  gives  Jose  Peyro  the  credit.  Pedrell,  in 
his  richly  documented  work,  "  Teatro  Lirico  Es- 
pafiola  anterior  al  siglo  XIX,"  attributes  the 
music  of  this  zarzuela  to  Peyro  and  gives  an  ex- 
ample of  it.  The  first  Spanish  opera  dates  from 
the  same  period,  Lope  de  Vega's  La  Selva  sm 
Amor  (1629).  As  a  matter  of  fact,  many  of  the 
plays  of  Calderon  and  Lope  de  Vega  were  per- 
formed with  music  to  heighten  the  effect  of  the 
declamation,  and  musical  curtain-raisers  and 
interludes  were  performed  before  and  in  the  midst 
of  all  of  them.  Lana,  Palomares,  Benavente  and 
Hidalgo  were  among  the  musicians  who  contrib- 
uted music  to  the  theatre  of  this  period.  Hi- 
dalgo wrote  the  music  for  Calderon's  zarzuela, 
Ni  Amor  se  Libre  de  Amor.  To  the  same  group 
belong  Miguel  Ferrer,  Juan  de  Navas,  Sebastien 
de  Navas,  and  Jeronimo  de  la  Torre.  (Examples 
of  the  music  of  these  men  may  be  found  in  the 
aforementioned  "Teatro  Lirico.")  Until  1659 
[111] 


Spain    and    Music 

zarzuelas  were  written  by  the  best  poets  and  com- 
posers and  frequently  performed  on  royal  birth- 
days, at  royal  marriages,  and  on  many  other 
occasions;  but  after  that  date  the  art  fell  into  a 
decline  and  seems  to  have  been  in  eclipse  during 
the  whole  of  the  eighteenth  century.  According 
to  Soriano  Fuertes  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of 
Felipe  V  marked  the  introduction  of  Italian  opera 
into  Spain  (more  popular  than  Spanish  opera 
there  to  this  day)  and  the  decadence  of  national- 
ism (whole  pages  of  Fuertes  read  very  much  like 
the  plaints  of  modern  English  composers  about 
the  neglect  of  national  composers  in  their  coun- 
try). In  1829  there  was  a  revival  of  interest  in 
Spanish  music  and  a  conservatory  was  founded 
in  Madrid.  (For  a  discussion  of  this  later  period 
the  reader  is  referred  to  "  La  Opera  Espanola  en 
el  Siglo  XIX,"  by  Antonio  Pena  y  Gofii,  1881.) 
This  interest  has  been  fostered  by  Fuertes  and 
Pedrell,  and  the  younger  composers  to-day  are 
taking  some  account  of  it.  There  is  hope,  indeed, 
that  Spanish  music  may  again  take  its  place  in 
the  world  of  art. 

Of  course,  the  zarzuela  did  not  spring  into  being 

out  of  nowhere  and  nothing,  and  the  true  origins 

are  not  entirely  obscure.     It  is  generally  agreed 

that  a  priest,  Juan  del  Encina    (born  at  Sala- 

[112] 


Spain    and    Music 

manca,  1468),  was  the  true  founder  of  the  secular 
theatre  in  Spain.  His  dramatic  compositions  are 
in  the  nature  of  eclogues  based  on  Virgilian 
models.  In  all  of  these  there  is  singing  and  in 
one  a  dance.  Isabel  la  Catolica  in  the  fifteenth 
century  always  had  at  her  command  a  troop  of 
musicians  and  poets  who  comforted  and  consoled 
her  in  her  chapel  with  motets  and  plegarias 
(French,  priere),  and  in  the  royal  apartments 
with  canciones  and  villancicos.  (Canciones  are 
songs  inclining  towards  the  ballad-form.  Villan- 
cicos are  songs  in  the  old  Spanish  measure;  they 
receive  their  name  from  their  rustic  character,  as 
supposedly  they  were  first  composed  by  the 
villanos  or  peasants  for  the  nativity  and  other 
festivals  of  the  church.)  "It  is  necessary  to 
search  for  the  true  origins  of  the  Spanish  musical 
spectacle,"  states  Soubies,  "  in  the  villancicos  and 
cantacillos  which  alternated  with  the  dialogue  in 
the  works  of  Juan  del  Encina  and  Lucas  Fernan- 
dez, without  forgetting  the  ensaladas,  the  jacaras, 
etc.,  which  served  as  intermezzi  and  curtain- 
raisers."  These  were  sung  before  the  curtain,  be- 
fore the  drama  was  performed  (and  during  the 
intervals,  with  jokes  added)  by  women  in  court 
dress,  and  later  created  a  form  of  their  own  (be- 
sides contributing  to  the  creation  of  the  zar- 
[113] 


Spain    and    Music 

zuela),  the  tonadilla,  which,  accompanied  by  a 
guitar  or  violin  and  interspersed  with  dances,  was 
very  popular  for  a  number  of  years.  H.  V.  Ham- 
ilton is  probably  on  sound  ground  when  he  says, 
"  That  the  first  zarzuela  was  written  with  an  ex- 
press desire  for  expansion  and  development  is, 
however,  not  so  certain  as  that  it  was  the  result 
of  a  wish  to  inaugurate  the  new  house  of  enter- 
tainment with  something  entirely  original  and 
novel." 

VI 

We  have  Richard  Ford's  testimony  that  Spain 
was  not  very  musical  in  his  day.  The  Reverend 
Henry  Cart  de  Lafontaine  says  that  the  con- 
temporary musical  services  in  the  churches  are  not 
to  be  considered  seriously  from  an  artistic  point 
of  view.  Emmanuel  Chabrier  was  impressed  with 
the  fact  that  the  music  for  dancing  was  almost 
entirely  rhythmic  in  its  effect,  strummed  rudely 
on  the  guitar,  the  spectators  meanwhile  making 
such  a  din  that  it  was  practically  impossible  to 
distinguish  a  melody,  had  there  been  one.  And 
all  observers  point  at  the  Italian  opera,  which  is 
still  the  favourite  opera  in  Spain  (in  Barcelona  at 
the  Liceo  three  weeks  of  opera  in  Catalon  is  given 
after  the  regular  season  in  Italian;  in  Madrid 
[114] 


Spain    and    Music 

at  the  Teatro-Real  the  Spanish  season  is  scattered 
through  the  Italian),  and  at  Senor  Arbos's  con- 
certs (the  same  Senor  Arbos  who  was  once  concert 
master  of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra),  at 
which  Brandenburg  concertos  and  Beethoven  sym- 
phonies are  more  frequently  performed  than  works 
by  Albeniz.  Still  there  are,  and  have  always 
been  during  the  course  of  the  last  century,  Span- 
ish composers,  some  of  whom  have  made  a  little 
noise  in  the  outer  world,  although  a  good  many 
have  been  content  to  spend  their  artistic  energy 
on  the  manufacture  of  zarzuelas  —  in  other 
words,  to  make  a  good  deal  of  noise  in  Spain.  In 
most  modern  instances,  however,  there  has  been 
a  revival  of  interest  in  the  national  forms,  and 
folk-song  and  folk-dance  have  contributed  their 
important  share  to  the  composers'  work.  No  one 
man  has  done  more  to  encourage  this  interest  in 
nationalism  than  Felipe  Pedrell,  who  may  be  said 
to  have  begun  in  Spain  the  work  which  the  "  Five  " 
accomplished  in  Russia.  Pedrell  says  in  his 
"Handbook"  (Barcelona,  1891;  Heinrich  and 
Co.;  French  translation  by  Bertal;  Paris,  Fisch- 
bacher) :  "  The  popular  song,  the  voice  of  the 
people,  the  pure  primitive  inspiration  of  the 
anonymous  singer,  passes  through  the  alembic  of 
contemporary  art  and  one  obtains  thereby  its 
[115] 


Spain    and    Music 

quintessence ;  the  composer  assimilates  it  and  then 
reveals  it  in  the  most  delicate  form  that  music 
alone  is  capable  of  rendering  form  in  its  technical 
aspect,  this  thanks  to  the  extraordinary  develop- 
ment of  the  technique  of  our  art  in  this  epoch. 
The  folk-song  lends  the  accent,  the  background, 
and  modern  art  lends  all  that  it  possesses,  its  con- 
ventional symbolism  and  the  richness  of  form 
which  is  its  patrimony.  The  frame  is  enlarged 
in  such  a  fashion  that  the  lied  makes  a  correspond- 
ing development;  could  it  be  said  then  that  the 
national  lyric  drama  is  the  same  lied  expanded? 
Is  not  the  national  lyric  drama  the  product  of  the 
force  of  absorption  and  creative  power?  Do  we 
not  see  in  it  faithfully  reflected  not  only  the  ar- 
tistic idiosyncrasy  of  each  composer,  but  all  the 
artistic  manifestations  of  the  people?"  There 
is  always  the  search  for  new  composers  in  Spain 
and  always  the  hope  that  a  man  may  come  who 
will  be  acclaimed  by  the  world.  As  a  consequence, 
the  younger  composers  in  Spain  often  receive 
more  adulation  than  is  their  due.  It  must  be  re- 
membered that  the  most  successful  Spanish  music 
is  not  serious,  the  Spanish  are  more  themselves 
in  the  lighter  vein. 

I  hesitate  for  a  moment  on  the  name  of  Martin 
y  Solar,  born  at  Valencia ;  died  at  St.  Petersburg, 
[116] 


Spain    and    Music 

1806 ;  called  "  The  Italian  "  by  the  Spaniards  on 
account  of  his  musical  style,  and  "  lo  Spagnuolo  " 
by  the  Italians.  Da  Ponte  wrote  several  opera- 
books  for  him,  V Arbor e  di  Diana,  la  Cosa  Rara, 
and  La  Capricciosa  Corretta  (a  version  of  The 
Taming  of  the  Shrew)  among  others.  It  is  to 
be  seen  that  he  is  without  importance  if  considered 
as  a  composer  distinctively  Spanish  and  I  have 
made  this  slight  reference  to  him  solely  to  recount 
how  Mozart  quoted  an  air  from  one  of  his  operas 
in  the  supper  scene  of  Don  Giovanni.  At  the  time 
Martin  y  Solar  was  better  liked  in  Vienna  than 
Mozart  himself  and  the  air  in  question  was  as 
well  known  as  say  Musetta's  waltz  is  known  to  us. 
Juan  Chrysostomo  Arriaga,  born  in  Bilbao 
1808;  died  1828  (these  dates  are  given  in  Grove: 
1806-1826),  is  another  matter.  He  might  have 
become  better  known  had  he  lived  longer.  As  it 
is,  some  of  his  music  has  been  performed  in  London 
and  Paris,  and  perhaps  in  America,  although  I 
have  no  record  of  it.  He  studied  in  Paris  at  the 
Conservatoire,  under  Fetis  for  harmony,  and 
Baillot  for  violin.  Before  he  went  to  Paris  even, 
as  a  child,  with  no  knowledge  of  the  rules  of  har- 
mony, he  had  written  an  opera!  Cherubini  de- 
clared his  fugue  for  eight  voices  on  the  words  in 
the  Credo,  "  Et  Vitam  Venturi "  a  veritable  chef 
[117] 


Spain    and    Music 

d'oeuvre,  at  least  there  is  a  legend  to  this  effect. 
In  1824*  he  wrote  three  quartets,  an  overture,  a 
symphony,  a  mass,  and  some  French  cantatas  and 
romances.  Garcia  considered  his  opera  Los 
Esclavas  Felices  so  good  that  he  attempted,  un- 
successfully, to  secure  for  it  a  Paris  hearing.  It 
has  been  performed  in  Bilbao,  which  city,  I  think, 
celebrated  the  centenary  of  the  composer's  birth. 
Manuel  Garcia  is  better  known  to  us  as  a 
singer,  an  impresario,  and  a  father,  than  as  a 
composer!  Still  he  wrote  a  good  deal  of  music 
(so  did  Mme.  Malibran;  for  a  list  of  the  diva's 
compositions  I  must  refer  the  reader  to  Arthur 
Pougin's  biography).  Fetis  enumerates  seven- 
teen Spanish,  nineteen  Italian,  and  seven  French 
operas  by  Garcia.  He  had  works  produced  in 
Madrid,  at  the  Opera  in  Paris  (La  mort  du  Tasse 
and  Florestan),  at  the  Italiens  in  Paris  (Fazzo- 
letto),  at  the  Opera-Comique  in  Paris  (Deux 
Contrats),  and  at  many  other  theatres.  How- 
ever, when  all  is  said  and  done,  Manuel  Garcia's 
reputation  still  rests  on  his  singing  and  his  daugh- 
ters. His  compositions  are  forgotten;  nor  was 
his  music,  much  of  it,  probably,  truly  Spanish. 
(However,  I  have  heard  a  polo  [serenade]  from 
an  opera  called  El  Poeta  Calculista,  which  is  so 
Spanish  in  accent  and  harmony  —  and  so  beau- 
[118] 


Spain    and    Music 

tiful  —  that  it  has  found  a  place  in  a  collection 
of  folk-tunes!) 

Miguel  Hilarion  Eslava  (born  in  Burlada,  Oc- 
tober 21,  1807,  died  at  Madrid,  July  23,  1878) 
is  chiefly  famous  for  his  compilation,  the  "  Lira 
Sacra-Hispana,"  mentioned  heretofore.  He  also 
composed  over  140  pieces  of  church  music,  masses, 
motets,  songs,  etc.,  after  he  had  been  appointed 
chapelmaster  of  Queen  Isabella  in  1844,  and  sev- 
eral operas,  including  II  Solitario,  La  Tregua  di 
Ptolemaide,  and  Pedro  el  Cruel.  He  also  wrote 
several  books  of  theory  and  composition :  "  Me- 
todo  de  Solfeo"  (1846)  and  "  Escuela  de 
Armonfa  y  Composicion "  in  three  parts  (har- 
mony, composition,  and  melody).  He  edited 
(1855-6)  the  "  Gaceta  Musical  de  Madrid." 

There  is  the  celebrated  virtuoso,  Pablo  de  Sara- 
sate,  who  wrote  music,  but  his  memory  is  perhaps 
better  preserved  in  Whistler's  diabolical  portrait 
than  in  his  own  compositions. 

Felipe  Pedrell  (born  February  19,  1841)  is 
also  perhaps  more  important  as  a  writer  on  mu- 
sical subjects  and  for  his  influence  on  the  younger 
school  of  composers  (he  teaches  in  the  conserva- 
tory of  Barcelona,  and  his  attitude  towards 
nationalism  has  already  been  discussed),  than  he 
is  as  a  composer.  Still,  Edouard  Lopez-Chavarri 
[119] 


Spain    and    Music 

does  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  his  trilogy  Los 
Pireneos  (Barcelona,  1902 ;  the  prologue  was  per- 
formed in  Venice  in  1897)  the  most  important 
work  for  the  theatre  written  in  Spain.  His  first 
opera.  El  Ultimo  Abencerrajo,  was  produced  in 
Barcelona  in  1874.  Some  of  his  other  works  are 
Quasimodo,  1875 ;  El  Tasso  a  Ferrara,  Cleopatra, 
Mazeppa  (Madrid,  1881),  Celestme  (1904),  and 
La  Matinada  (1905).  J.  A.  Fuller-Maitland 
says  that  the  influence  of  Wagner  is  traceable  in 
all  his  stage  work.  (Wagner  is  adored  in  Spain ; 
Parsifal  was  given  eighteen  times  in  one  month  at 
the  Liceo  in  Barcelona.)  If  this  be  true,  his  case 
will  be  found  to  bear  other  resemblances  to  that 
of  the  Russian  "  Five,"  who  found  it  difficult  to 
exorcise  all  foreign  influences  in  their  pursuit  of 
nationalism. 

He  was  made  a  member  of  the  Spanish  Academy 
in  1894  and  shortly  thereafter  became  Professor 
of  Musical  History  and  ^Esthetics  at  the  Royal 
Conservatory  at  Madrid.  Besides  his  "  His- 
paniae  Schola  Musica  Sacra  "  he  has  written  a 
number  of  other  books,  and  translated  Richter's 
treatise  on  Harmony  into  Spanish.  He  has  made 
several  excursions  into  the  history  of  folk-lore 
and  the  principal  results  are  contained  in  "  Mu- 
sicos  Anonimos "  and  "  For  nuestra  Musica." 
[120] 


Spain    and    Music 

Other  works  are  "  Teatro  Lirico  Espanol  anterior 
al  siglo  XIX,"  "Lirica  Nacionalizada,"  "  De 
Musica  Religiosa,"  "  Musiquerias  y  mas  Mu- 
siquesias."  One  of  his  books,  "  Musicos  Contem- 
poraneos  y  de  Otros  Tempos  "  (in  the  library  of 
the  Hispanic  Society  of  New  York)  is  very  cath- 
olic in  its  range  of  subject.  It  includes  essays  on 
the  Don  Quixote  of  Strauss,  the  Boris  Godunow 
of  Moussorgsky,  Smetana,  Manuel  Garcia,  Ed- 
ward Elgar,  Jaques-Dalcroze,  Bruckner,  Mahler, 
Albeniz,  Palestrina,  Busoni,  and  the  tenth  sym- 
phony of  Beethoven ! 

In  John  Towers's  extraordinary  compilation, 
"  Dictionary-Catalogue  of  Operas,"  it  is  stated 
that  Manuel  Fernandez  Caballero  (born  in  1835) 
wrote  sixty-two  operas,  and  the  names  of  them 
are  given.  He  was  a  pupil  of  Fuertes  (harmony) 
and  Eslava  (composition)  at  the  Madrid  Con- 
servatory and  later  became  very  popular  as  a 
writer  of  zarzuelas.  I  have  already  mentioned  his 
Gigantes  y  Cabezudos  for  which  Echegaray  fur- 
nished the  libretto.  Among  his  other  works  in 
this  form  are  Los  Dineros  del  Sacristan,  Los 
Africanistas  (Barcelona,  1894),  El  Cabo  Primero 
(Barcelona,  1895),  and  La  Rueda  de  la  Fortuna 
(Madrid,  1896). 

At  a  concert  given  in  the  New  York  Hippo- 
[121] 


Spain    and    Music 

drome,  April  3,  1911,  Mme.  Tetrazzini  sang  a 
Spanish  song,  which  was  referred  to  the  next  day 
by  the  reviewers  of  the  "  New  York  Times  "  and 
the  "New  York  Globe."  To  say  truth  the  so- 
prano made  a  great  effect  with  the  song,  although 
it  was  written  for  a  low  voice.  It  was  Carce- 
leras,  from  Rupert o  Chapi's  zarzuela  Hija  del 
Zebedeo.  Chapi  was  one  of  the  most  prolific  and 
popular  composers  of  Spain  during  the  last  cen- 
tury. He  produced  countless  zarzuelas  and  nine 
children.  He  was  born  at  Villena  March  27, 
1851,  and  he  died  March  25,  1909,  a  few  months 
earlier  than  his  compatriot  Isaac  Albeniz.  He 
was  admitted  to  the  conservatory  of  Madrid  in 
1867  as  a  pupil  of  piano  and  harmony.  In  1869 
he  obtained  the  first  prize  for  harmony  and  he  con- 
tinued to  obtain  prizes  until  in  1874  he  was  sent 
to  Rome  by  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts.  He  re- 
mained for  some  time  in  Italy  and  Paris.  In 
1875  the  Teatro  Real  of  Madrid  played  his  La 
Hija  de  Jefte  sent  from  Rome.  The  following  is 
an  incomplete  list  of  his  operas  and  zarzuelas: 
Via  Libra,  Los  Gendarmes,  El  Rey  que  Rabio  (3 
acts),  La  Verbena  de  la  Paloma,  El  Reclamo,  La 
Tempestad,  La  Bruja,  La  Leyenda  del  Monje,  Las 
Campanados,  La  Czarina,  El  Milagro  de  la  Vir- 
gen,  Roger  de  Flor  (3  acts),  Las  Naves  de  Cortes, 
[122] 


Spain    and    Music 

Circe  (3  acts),  A  qui  Base  Farsa  un  Hombre, 
Juan  Francisco  (3  acts,  1905 ;  rewritten  and  pre- 
sented in  1908  as  Entre  Rocas),  Los  Madrilenos 
(1908),  La  Dama  Roja  (1  act,  1908),  Hesperia 
(1908),  Las  Calderas  de  Pedro  Bolero  (1909) 
and  Margarita  la  Tomer  a,  presented  just  before 
his  death  without  success. 

His  other  works  include  an  oratorio,  Los 
Angeles,  a  symphonic  poem,  Escenas  de  Capa  y 
Espada,  a  symphony  in  D,  Moorish  Fantasy  for 
orchestra,  a  serenade  for  orchestra,  a  trio  for 
piano,  violin  and  'cello,  songs,  etc.  Chapi  was 
president  of  the  Society  of  Authors  and  Com- 
posers, and  when  he  died  the  King  and  Queen  of 
Spain  sent  a  telegram  of  condolence  to  his  widow. 
There  is  a  copy  of  his  zarzuela,  Blasones  y  Tale- 
gas  in  the  New  York  Public  Library. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  Dolores.  It  is  one  of 
a  long  series  of  operas  and  zarzuelas  written  by 
Tomas  Breton  y  Hernandez  (born  at  Salamanca, 
December  29,  1850).  First  produced  at  Madrid, 
in  1895,  it  has  been  sung  with  success  in  such  dis- 
tant capitals  as  Buenos  Ayres  and  Prague.  I 
have  been  assured  by  a  Spanish  woman  of  impec- 
cable taste  that  Dolores  is  charming,  delightful 
in  its  fluent  melody  and  its  striking  rhythms,  thor- 
oughly Spanish  in  style,  but  certain  to  find  favour 
[123] 


Spain    and    Music 

in  America,  if  it  were  produced  here.  Our  own 
Eleanora  de  Cisneros  at  a  Press  Club  Benefit  in 
Barcelona  appeared  in  Breton's  zarzuela  La  Ver- 
bena de  la  Paloma.  Another  of  Breton's  famous 
zarzuelas  is  Los  Amantes  de  Ternel  (Madrid, 
1889).  His  works  for  the  theatre  further  include 
Tabare,  for  which  he  wrote  both  words  and  music 
(Madrid,  1913);  Don  Gil  (Barcelona,  1914); 
Garm  (Barcelona,  1891);  Raquel  (Madrid, 
1900);  Guzman  el  Bueno  (Madrid,  1876);  El 
Cert  amen  de  Cremona  (Madrid,  1906)  ;  El  Cam- 
panere  de  Begona  (Madrid,  1878)  ;  El  Barberillo 
en  Ordn;  Corona  contra  Corona  (Madrid,  1879)  ; 
Les  Amoves  de  un  Principe  (Madrid,  1881);  El 
Clavel  Rojo  (1899);  Covadonga  (1901)  ;  and  El 
Domingo  de  Ramos,  words  by  Echegaray  (Mad- 
rid, 1894).  His  works  for  orchestra  include: 
En  la  Alhambra,  Los  Galeotes,  and  Escenas  An- 
daluzas,  a  suite.  He  has  written  three  string 
quartets,  a  piano  trio,  a  piano  quintet,  and  an 
oratorio  in  two  parts,  El  Apocalipsis. 

Breton  is  largely  self-taught,  and  there  is  a 
legend  that  he  devoured  by  himself  Eslava's 
"  School  of  Composition."  He  further  wrote  the 
music  and  conducted  for  a  circus  for  a  period  of 
years.  In  the  late  seventies  he  conducted  an 
orchestra,  founding  a  new  society,  the  Union 
[124] 


Spain    and    Music 

Artistico  Musical,  which  is  said  to  have  been  the 
beginning  of  the  modern  movement  in  Spain.  It 
may  throw  some  light  on  Spanish  musical  taste 
at  this  period  to  mention  the  fact  that  the  per- 
formance of  Saint-Saens's  Danse  macabre  almost 
created  a  riot.  Later  Breton  travelled.  He  ap- 
peared as  conductor  in  London,  Prague,  and 
Buenos  Ayres,  among  other  cities  outside  of 
Spain,  and  when  Dr.  Karl  Muck  left  Prague  for 
Berlin,  he  was  invited  to  succeed  him  in  the  Bo- 
hemian capital.  In  the  contest  held  by  the  per- 
iodical "  Blanco  y  Negro  "  in  1913  to  decide  who 
was  the  most  popular  writer,  poet,  painter,  mu- 
sician, sculptor,  and  toreador  in  Spain,  Breton  as 
musician  got  the  most  votes.  .  .  .  He  is  at  pres- 
ent the  head  of  the  Royal  Conservatory  in  Mad- 
rid. 

No  Spanish  composer  (ancient  or  modern)  is 
better  known  outside  of  Spain  than  Isaac  Albeniz 
(born  May  29,  1861,  at  Comprodon;  died  at 
Cambo,  in  the  Pyrenees,  May  25,  1909).  His 
fame  rests  almost  entirely  on  twelve  piano  pieces 
(in  four  books)  entitled  collectively  Iberia,  with 
which  all  concert  goers  are  familiar.  They  have 
been  performed  here  by  Ernest  Schelling,  Leo  Orn- 
stein,  and  George  Copeland,  among  other  virtuosi. 
...  I  think  one  or  two  of  these  pieces  must  be 
[125] 


Spain    and    Music 

in  the  repertoire  of  every  modern  pianist. 
Albeniz  did  not  imbibe  his  musical  culture  in  Spain 
and  to  the  day  of  his  death  he  was  more  friendly 
with  the  modern  French  group  of  composers  than 
with  those  of  his  native  land.  In  his  music  he 
sees  Spain  with  French  eyes.  He  studied  at  Paris 
with  Marmontel;  at  Brussels  with  Louis  Brassin; 
and  at  Weimar  with  Liszt  (he  is  mentioned  in  the 
long  list  of  pupils  in  Huneker's  biography  of 
Liszt,  but  there  is  no  further  account  of  him  in 
that  book)  ;  he  studied  composition  with  Jadas- 
sohn,  Joseph  Dupont,  and  F.  Kufferath.  His 
symphonic  poem,  Catalonia,  has  been  performed 
in  Paris  by  the  Colonne  Orchestra.  I  have  no 
record  of  any  American  performance.  For  a 
time  he  devoted  himself  to  the  piano.  He  was  a 
virtuoso  and  he  has  even  played  in  London,  but 
later  in  life  he  gave  up  this  career  for  composi- 
tion. He  wrote  several  operas  and  zarzuelas, 
among  them  a  light  opera,  The  Magic  Opal  (pro- 
duced in  London,  1893),  Enrico  Clifford  (Barce- 
lona, 1894;  later  heard  in  London),  Pepita 
Jiminez  (Barcelona,  1895 ;  afterwards  given  at 
the  Theatre  de  la  Monnaie  in  Brussels),  and  San 
Anton  de  la  Florida  (produced  in  Brussels  as 
VErmitage  Fleurie).  He  left  unfinished  at  his 
death  another  opera  destined  for  production  in 
[126] 


Spain    and    Music 

Brussels  at  the  Monnaie,  Merlin  I 'Enchant eur. 
None  of  his  operas,  with  the  exception  of  Pepita 
Jiminez,  which  has  been  performed,  I  am  told,  in 
all  Spanish  countries,  achieved  any  particular 
success,  and  it  is  Iberia  and  a  few  other  piano 
pieces  which  will  serve  to  keep  his  memory  green. 

Juan  Bautista  Pujol  (1836-1898)  gained  con- 
siderable reputation  in  Spain  as  a  pianist  and  as 
a  teacher  of  and  composer  for  that  instrument. 
He  also  wrote  a  method  for  piano  students  en- 
titled "  Nuevo  Mecanismo  del  Piano."  His  fur- 
ther claim  to  attention  is  due  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  one  of  the  teachers  of  Granados. 

The  names  of  Pahissa  (both  as  conductor  and 
composer;  one  of  his  symphonic  works  is  called 
The  Combat),  Garcia  Robles,  represented  by  an 
Epitalame,  and  Gibert,  with  two  Marines,  occur  on 
the  programmes  of  the  two  concerts  devoted  in 
the  main  to  Spanish  music,  at  the  second  of  which 
(Barcelona,  1910;  conductor  Franz  Beidler)  Gra- 
nados's  Dante  was  performed. 

E.  Fernandez  Arbos  (born  in  Madrid,  Decem- 
ber 25,  1863)  is  better  known  as  a  conductor  and 
violinist  than  as  composer.  Still,  he  has  written 
music,  especially  for  his  own  instrument.  He  was 
a  pupil  of  both  Vieuxtemps  and  Joachim;  and  he 
has  travelled  much,  teaching  at  the  Hamburg 
[127] 


Spain    and    Music 

Conservatory,  and  acting  as  concertmaster  for  the 
Boston  Symphony  and  the  Glasgow  Orchestras. 
He  has  been  a  professor  at  the  Madrid  con- 
servatory for  some  time,  giving  orchestral  and 
chamber  music  concerts,  both  there  and  in  Lon- 
don. He  has  written  at  least  one  light  opera,  pre- 
sumably a  zarzuela,  El  Centro  de  la  Tierra  (Mad- 
rid; December  22,  1895);  three  trios  for  piano 
and  strings,  songs,  and  an  orchestral  suite. 

I  have  already  referred  to  the  Valverdes,  father 
and  son.  The  father,  in  collaboration  with  Fed- 
erico  Chueca,  wrote  La  Gran  Via.  Many  another 
popular  zarzuela  is  signed  by  him.  The  son  has 
lived  so  long  in  France  that  much  of  his  music  is 
cast  in  the  style  of  the  French  music  hall;  too  it 
is  in  a  popular  vein.  Still  in  his  best  tangos  he 
strikes  a  Spanish  folk-note  not  to  be  despised. 
He  wrote  the  music  for  the  play,  La  Maison  de 
Danse,  produced,  with  Polaire,  at  the  Vaudeville 
in  Paris,  and  two  of  his  operettas,  La  Rose  de 
Grenade  and  V Amour  en  Espagne,  have  been  per- 
formed in  Paris,  not  without  success,  I  am  told  by 
La  Argentina,  who  danced  in  them.  Other  mod- 
ern composers  who  have  been  mentioned  to  me  are 
Manuel  de  Falla,  Joaquin  Turina  (George  Cope- 
land  has  played  his  A  los  Toros),  Usandihaga 
(who  died  in  1915),  the  composer  of  Los  Golondri- 
[128] 


Spain    and    Music 

nos,  Oscar  Erpla,  Conrado  del  Campo,  and  En- 
rique Morera. 

Enrique  Granados  was  perhaps  the  first  of  the 
important  Spanish  composers  to  visit  North 
America.  His  place  in  the  list  of  modern  Iberian 
musicians  is  indubitably  a  high  one;  though  it 
must  not  be  taken  for  granted  that  all  the  best 
music  of  Spain  crosses  the  Pyrenees  (for  reasons 
already  noted  it  is  evident  that  some  Spanish 
music  can  never  be  heard  to  advantage  outside  of 
Spain),  and  it  is  by  no  means  to  be  taken  for 
granted  that  Granados  was  a  greater  musician 
than  several  who  dwell  in  Barcelona  and  Madrid 
without  making  excursions  into  the  outer  world. 
In  his  own  country  I  am  told  Granados  was  ad- 
mired chiefly  as  a  pianist,  and  his  performances 
on  that  instrument  in  New  York  stamped  him  as 
an  original  interpretative  artist,  one  capable  of 
extracting  the  last  tonal  meaning  out  of  his  own 
compositions  for  the  pianoforte,  which  are  his 
best  work. 

Shortly  after  his  arrival  in  New  York  he  stated 
to  several  reporters  that  America  knew  nothing 
about  Spanish  music,  and  that  Bizet's  Carmen  was 
not  in  any  sense  Spanish.  I  hold  no  brief  for 
Carmen  being  Spanish  but  it  is  effective,  and  that 
Goyescas  as  an  opera  is  not.  In  the  first  place, 
[129] 


Spain    and    Music 

its  muddy  and  blatant  orchestration  would  de- 
tract from  its  power  to  please  (this  opinion  might 
conceivably  be  altered  were  the  opera  given  under 
Spanish  conditions  in  Spain).  The  manuscript 
score  of  Goyescas  now  reposes  in  the  Museum  of 
the  Hispanic  Society,  in  that  interesting  quarter 
of  New  York  where  the  apartment  houses  bear  the 
names  of  Goya  and  Velasquez,  and  it  is  interest- 
ing to  note  that  it  is  a  piano  score.  What  has 
become  of  the  orchestral  partition  and  who  was 
responsible  for  it  I  do  not  know.  It  is  certain, 
however,  that  the  miniature  charm  of  the  Goyes- 
cas becomes  more  obvious  in  the  piano  version, 
performed  by  Ernest  Schelling  or  the  composer 
himself,  than  in  the  opera  house.  The  growth  of 
the  work  is  interesting.  Fragments  of  it  took 
shape  in  the  composer's  brain  and  on  paper  seven- 
teen years  ago,  the  result  of  the  study  of  Goya's 
paintings  in  the  Prado.  These  fragments  were 
moulded  into  a  suite  in  1909  and  again  into  an 
opera  in  1914  (or  before  then).  F.  Periquet,  the 
librettist,  was  asked  to  fit  words  to  the  score,  a 
task  which  he  accomplished  with  difficulty.  Span- 
ish is  not  an  easy  tongue  to  sing.  To  Mme.  Bar- 
rientos  this  accounts  for  the  comparatively  small 
number  of  Spanish  operas.  Goyescas,  like  many 
a  zarzuela,  lags  when  the  dance  rhythms  cease.  I 
[130] 


Spain    and    Music 

find  little  joy  myself  in  listening  to  "  La  Maja  y  el 
Ruiseiior  " ;  in  fact,  the  entire  last  scene  sounds 
banal  to  my  ears.  In  the  four  volumes  of  Spanish 
dances  which  Granados  wrote  for  piano  (pub- 
lished by  the  Sociedad  Anonima  Casa  Dotesio  in 
Barcelona)  I  console  myself  for  my  lack  of  inter- 
est in  Goyescas.  These  lovely  dances  combine  in 
their  artistic  form  all  the  elements  of  the  folk- 
dances  as  I  have  described  them.  They  bespeak  a 
careful  study  and  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
originals.  And  any  pianist,  amateur  or  profes- 
sional, will  take  joy  in  playing  them. 

Enrique  Granados  y  Campina  was  born  July 
27,  1867,  at  Lerida,  Catalonia.  (He  died  March 
24,  1916;  a  passenger  on  the  Sussex,  torpedoed  in 
the  English  Channel.)  From  1884  to  1887  he 
studied  piano  under  Pujol  and  composition  under 
Felipe  Pedrell  at  the  Madrid  Conservatory.  That 
the  latter  was  his  master  presupposed  on  his  part 
a  valuable  knowledge  of  the  treasures  of  Spain's 
past  and  that,  I  think,  we  may  safely  allow  him. 
There  is,  I  am  told,  an  interesting  combination  of 
classicism  and  folk-lore  in  his  work.  At  any  rate, 
Granados  was  a  faithful  disciple  of  Pedrell.  In 
1898  his  zarzuela  Maria  del  Carmen  was  pro- 
duced in  Madrid  and  has  since  been  heard  in  Va- 
lencia, Barcelona,  and  other  Spanish  cities.  Five 
[131] 


Spain    and    Music 

years  later  some  fragments  of  another  opera.  Fa- 
let  to,  were  produced  at  Barcelona.  His  third  op- 
era, Liliana,  was  produced  at  Barcelona  in  1911. 
He  wrote  numerous  songs  to  texts  by  the  poet, 
Apeles  Mestres;  Galician  songs,  two  symphonic 
poems,  La  Nit  del  Mort  and  Dante  (performed  by 
the  Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra  for  the  first  time 
in  America  at  the  concerts  of  November  5  and  6, 
1915);  a  piano  trio,  string  quartet,  and  various 
books  of  piano  music  (Danzas  Espanolas,  Valses 
Poeticos,  Bocetos,  etc.). 

New  York,  March  00, 1916. 


[132] 


Shall  We  Realize  Wagner's   Ideals? 


Shall  We  Realize  Wagner's 
Ideals? 

HISTORIANS  of  operatic  phenomena  have 
observed  that  fashions  in  music  change; 
the  popular  Donizetti  and  Bellini  of  one 
century  are  suffered  to  exist  during  the  next  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  opportunity  they  afford  to 
some  brilliant  songstress.  New  tastes  arise,  new 
styles  in  music.  Dukas's  generally  unrelished  (and 
occasionally  highly  appreciated)  Ariane  et  Barbe- 
Bleue  may  not  be  powerful  enough  to  establish  a 
place  for  itself  in  the  repertoire,  but  its  direct  in- 
fluence on  composers  and  its  indirect  influence  on 
auditors  make  this  lyric  drama  highly  important 
as  an  indication  of  the  future  of  opera  as  a  fine 
art.  Moussorgsky's  Boris  Godunow,  first  given  in 
this  country  some  forty  years  after  its  production 
in  Russia,  is  another  matter.  That  score  con- 
tains a  real  thrill  in  itself,  a  thrill  which,  once  felt, 
makes  it  difficult  to  feel  the  intensity  of  a  Wagner 
drama  again:  because  Wagner  is  becoming  just  a 
little  bit  old-fashioned.  Lohengrin  and  Tannhaw- 
ser  are  becoming  a  trifle  shop-worn.  They  do  not 
glitter  with  the  glory  of  a  Don  Giovanni  or  the 
invincible  splendour  of  an  Armlde.  There  are 
parts  of  Die  Walkiire  which  are  growing  old. 
[135] 


Shall   We   Realize 

Now  Wagner,  in  many  ways  the  greatest  figure  as 
opera  composer  which  the  world  has  yet  produced, 
could  hold  his  place  in  the  singing  theatres  for 
many  decades  to  come  if  some  proper  effort  were 
made  to  do  justice  to  his  dramas,  the  justice  which 
in  a  large  measure  has  been  done  to  his  music. 
This  effort  at  present  is  not  being  made. 

In  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  season  of 
1895-6,  when  Jean  de  Reszke  first  sang  Tristan  in 
German,  the  opportunity  seemed  to  be  opened  for 
further  breaks  with  what  a  Munich  critic  once 
dubbed  "  Die  Bayreuther  Tradition  oder  Der  mis- 
verstandene  Wagner."  For  up  to  that  time,  in 
spite  of  some  isolated  examples,  it  had  come  to  be 
considered,  in  utter  misunderstanding  of  Wagner's 
own  wishes  and  doctrines,  as  a  part  of  the  tech- 
nique of  performing  a  Wagner  music-drama  to 
shriek,  howl,  or  bark  the  tones,  rather  than  to  sing 
them.  There  had  been,  I  have  said,  isolated  ex- 
amples of  German  singers,  and  artists  of  other 
nationalities  singing  in  German,  who  had  sung 
their  phrases  in  these  lyric  plays,  but  the  appear- 
ance in  the  Wagner  roles,  in  German,  of  a  tenor 
whose  previous  appearances  had  been  made  largely 
in  works  in  French  and  Italian  which  demanded 
the  use  of  what  is  called  bd  canto  (it  means  only 
good  singing)  brought  about  a  controversy  which 
[136] 


Wagner  's    Ideals? 

even  yet  is  raging  in  some  parts  of  the  world. 
Should  Wagner  be  sung,  in  the  manner  of  Jean  de 
Reszke,  or  shouted  in  the  traditional  manner? 
Was  it  possible  to  sing  the  music  and  make  the 
effect  the  Master  expected?  In  answer  it  may  be 
said  that  never  in  their  history  have  Siegfried, 
Tristan  und  Isolde,  and  Lohengrin  met  with  such 
success  as  when  Jean  de  Reszke  and  his  famous  as- 
sociates appeared  in  them,  and  it  may  also  be  said 
that  since  that  time  there  has  been  a  consistent 
effort  on  the  part  of  the  management  of  the  Met- 
ropolitan Opera  House  (and  other  theatres  as 
well)  to  provide  artists  for  these  dramas  who  could 
sing  them,  and  sing  them  as  Italian  operas  are 
sung,  an  effort  to  which  opera  directors  have  been 
spurred  by  a  growing  insistence  on  the  part  of  the 
public. 

It  was  the  first  break  with  the  Bayreuth  bug- 
bear, tradition,  and  it  might  have  been  hoped  that 
this  tradition  would  be  stifled  in  other  directions, 
with  this  successful  precedent  in  mind;  but  such 
has  not  been  the  case.  As  a  result  of  this  failure 
to  follow  up  a  beneficial  lead,  in  spite  of  orchestral 
performances  which  bring  out  the  manifold  beau- 
ties of  the  scores  and  in  spite  of  single  impersona- 
tions of  high  rank  by  eminent  artists,  we  are  be- 
ginning to  see  the  Wagner  dramas  falling  into 
[137] 


Shall    We    Realize 

decline,  long  before  the  appointed  time,  because 
their  treatment  has  been  held  in  the  hands  of  Co- 
sima  Wagner,  who  —  with  the  best  of  intentions, 
of  course  —  not  only  insists  (at  Bayreuth  she  is 
mistress,  and  her  influence  on  singers,  conductors, 
stage  directors  and  scene  painters  throughout  the 
world  is  very  great)  on  the  carrying  out  of  Wag- 
ner's theories,  as  she  understands  them,  and  even 
when  they  are  only  worthy  of  being  ignored,  but 
who  also  (whether  rightly  or  wrongly)  is  credited 
with  a  few  traditions  of  her  own.  Wagner  indeed 
invented  a  new  form  of  drama,  but  he  did  not  have 
the  time  or  means  at  his  disposal  to  develop  an 
adequate  technique  for  its  performance. 

We  are  all  familiar  with  the  Bayreuth  ver- 
sion of  Wotan  in  Die  Walkure  which  makes 
of  that  tragic  father-figure  a  boisterous,  silly 
old  scold  (so  good  an  artist  as  Carl  Braun, 
whose  Hagen  portrait  is  a  masterpiece,  has  fol- 
lowed this  tradition  literally  )  ;  we  all  know  too  well 
the  waking  Briinnhilde  who  salutes  the  sun  in  the 
last  act  of  Siegfried  with  gestures  seemingly  de- 
rived from  the  exercises  of  a  Swedish  turnverein, 
following  the  harp  arpeggios  as  best  she  may;  we 
remember  how  Wotan,  seizing  the  sword  from  the 
dead  Fasolt's  hand,  brandishes  it  to  the  tune  of 
the  sword  motiv,  indicating  the  coming  of  the  hero, 
[138] 


Wagner 's    Ideals? 

Siegfried,  as  the  gods  walk  over  the  rainbow  bridge 
to  Walhalla  at  the  end  of  Das  Rheingold;  we  smile 
over  the  tame  horse  which  some  chorus  man,  look- 
ing the  while  like  a  truck  driver  who  is  not  good  to 
animals,  holds  for  Brunnhilde  while  she  sings  her 
final  lament  in  Gotterdammerung ;  we  laugh  aloud 
when  he  assists  her  to  lead  the  unfiery  steed,  who 
walks  as  leisurely  as  a  well-fed  horse  would  to- 
wards oats,  into  the  burning  pyre ;  we  can  still  see 
the  picture  of  the  three  Rhine  maidens,  bobbing  up 
and  down  jerkily  behind  a  bit  of  gauze,  reminiscent 
of  visions  of  mermaids  at  the  Eden  Musee ;  we  all 
have  seen  Tristan  and  Isolde,  drunk  with  the  love 
potion,  swimming  (there  is  no  other  word  to  de- 
scribe this  effect)  towards  each  other;  and  no  per- 
fect Wagnerite  can  have  forgotten  the  gods  and 
the  giants  standing  about  in  the  fourth  scene  of 
Das  Rheingold  for  all  the  world  as  if  they  were  the 
protagonists  of  a  fantastic  minstrel  show.  (At 
a  performance  of  Parsifal  in  Chicago  Vernon 
Stiles  discovered  while  he  was  on  the  stage  that  his 
suspenders,  which  held  his  tights  in  place,  had 
snapped.  For  a  time  he  pressed  his  hands  against 
his  groin;  this  method  proving  ineffectual,  he  fin- 
ished the  scene  with  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
pressed  firmly  against  his  waist-line.  As  he  left 
the  stage,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  act,  breathing 
[139] 


Shall   We   Realize 

a  sigh  of  relief,  he  met  Loomis  Taylor,  the  stage 
director.  "  Did  you  think  my  new  gesture  was 
due  to  nervousness  ?  "  he  asked.  "  No,"  answered 
Taylor,  "  I  thought  it  was  Bayreuth  tradition!  ") 

These  are  a  few  of  the  Bayreuth  precepts  which 
are  followed.  There  are  others.  There  are  in- 
deed many  others.  We  all  know  the  tendency  of 
conductors  who  have  been  tried  at  Bayreuth,  or 
who  have  come  under  the  influence  of  Cosima  Wag- 
ner, to  drag  out  the  tempi  to  an  exasperating  de- 
gree. I  have  heard  performances  of  Lohengrin 
which  were  dragged  by  the  conductor  some  thirty 
minutes  beyond  the  ordinary  time.  (Again  the 
Master  is  held  responsible  for  this  tradition,  but 
though  all  composers  like  to  have  their  own  music 
last  in  performance  as  long  as  possible,  the  tradi- 
tion, perhaps,  is  just  as  authentic  as  the  story 
that  Richard  Strauss,  when  conducting  Tristan 
und  Isolde  at  the  Prinz-Regenten-Theatre  in  Mu- 
nich, saved  twenty  minutes  on  the  ordinary  time  it 
takes  to  perform  the  work  in  order  to  return  as 
soon  as  possible  to  an  interrupted  game  of  Skat.) 

But  it  is  not  tradition  alone  that  is  killing  the 

Wagner  dramas.     In  many  instances  and  in  most 

singing  theatres  silly  traditions  are  aided  in  their 

work  of  destruction  by  another  factor  in  hasty 

[140] 


Wagner 's    Ideals? 

production.  I  am  referring  to  the  frequent  lib- 
erties which  have  been  taken  with  the  intentions  of 
the  author.  For,  when  expediency  is  concerned, 
no  account  is  taken  of  tradition,  and,  curiously 
enough,  expediency  breaks  with  those  traditions 
which  can  least  stand  being  tampered  with.  The 
changes,  in  other  words,  have  not  been  made  for 
the  sake  of  improvement,  but  through  carelessness, 
or  to  save  time  or  money,  or  for  some  other  cog- 
nate reason.  An  example  of  this  sort  of  thing  is 
the  custom  of  giving  the  Ring  dramas  as  a  cycle  in 
a  period  extending  over  four  weeks,  one  drama  a 
week.  It  is  also  customary  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  in  New  York  to  entrust  the  role  of 
Briinnhilde,  or  of  Siegfried,  to  a  different  inter- 
preter in  each  drama,  so  that  the  Briinnhilde  who 
wakes  in  Siegfried  is  not  at  all  the  Briinnhilde  who 
goes  to  sleep  in  Die  Walkiire.  Then,  although 
Briinnhilde  exploits  a  horse  in  Gotterddmmerung, 
she  possesses  none  in  Die  Walkiire;  none  of  the 
other  valkyries  has  a  horse;  Fricka's  goats  have 
been  taken  away  from  her,  and  she  walks  to  the 
mountain-top  holding  her  skirts  from  under  her 
feet  for  all  the  world  as  a  lady  of  fashion  might  as 
she  ascended  from  a  garden  into  a  ballroom.  At 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  and  at  other  thea- 
[141] 


Shall    We    Realize 

tres  where  I  have  seen  the  dramas,  the  decorations 
of  the  scenes  of  Brunnhilde's  falling  asleep  and  of 
her  awakening  are  quite  different. 

Naturally,  ingenious  explanations  have  been  de- 
vised to  fit  these  cases.  For  instance,  one  is  told 
that  animals  are  never  at  home  on  the  stage. 
This  explanation  suffices  perhaps  for  the  animals 
which  do  not  appear,  but  how  about  those  which 
do?  The  vague  phrase,  "  the  exigencies  of  the 
repertoire,"  is  mentioned  as  the  reason  for  the  ex- 
tension of  the  cycle  over  several  weeks,  that  and 
the  further  excuse  that  the  system  permits  people 
from  nearby  towns  to  make  weekly  visits  to  the 
metropolis.  Of  course,  Wagner  intended  that 
each  of  the  Ring  dramas  should  follow  its  prede- 
cessor on  succeeding  days  in  a  festival  week.  If 
the  Ring  were  so  given  in  New  York  every  season 
with  due  preparation,  careful  staging,  and  the 
best  obtainable  cast,  the  occasions  would  draw  au- 
diences from  all  over  America,  as  the  festivals  at 
Bayreuth  and  Munich  do  indeed  draw  audiences 
from  all  over  the  world.  Ingenuous  is  the  word 
which  best  describes  the  explanation  for  the 
change  in  Brunnhildes;  one  is  told  that  the  out- 
of-town  subscribers  to  the  series  prefer  to  hear  as 
many  singers  as  possible.  They  wish  to  "  com- 
pare "  Brunnhildes,  so  to  speak.  Perhaps  the 
[142] 


Wagner 's    Ideals? 

real  reason  for  divergence  from  common  sense  is 
the  difficulty  the  director  of  the  opera-house  would 
have  with  certain  sopranos  if  one  were  allowed  the 
full  set  of  performances.  As  for  the  change  in 
the  setting  of  Briinnhilde's  rock  it  is  pure  expedi- 
ency, nothing  else.  In  Die  Walkiire,  in  which,  be- 
tween acts,  there  is  plenty  of  time  to  change  the 
scenery,  a  heavy  built  promontory  of  rocks  is  re- 
quired for  the  valkyrie  brood  to  stand  on.  In 
Siegfried  and  Gotterdammerung,  where  the  scen- 
ery must  be  shifted  in  short  order,  this  particular 
setting  is  utilized  only  for  duets.  The  heavier  ele- 
ments of  the  setting  are  no  longer  needed,  and  are 
dispensed  with. 

The  mechanical  devices  demanded  by  Wagner 
are  generally  complied  with  in  a  stupidly  clumsy 
manner.  The  first  scene  of  Das  Rheingold  is  usu- 
ally managed  with  some  effect  now,  although  the 
swimming  of  the  Rhine  maidens,  who  are  dressed 
in  absurd  long  floating  green  nightgowns,  is  car- 
ried through  very  badly  and  seemingly  without  an 
idea  that  such  things  have  been  done  a  thousand 
times  better  in  other  theatres ;  the  changes  of  scene 
in  Das  Rheingold  are  accomplished  in  such  a  man- 
ner that  one  fears  the  escaping  steam  is  damaging 
the  gauze  curtains ;  the  worm  and  the  toad  are  silly 
contrivances;  the  effect  of  the  rainbow  is  never 


Shall    We    Realize 

properly  conveyed;  the  ride  of  the  valkyries  is 
frankly  evaded  by  most  stage  managers ;  the  bird 
in  Siegfried  flies  like  a  sickly  crow;  the  final 
scene  in  Gotterddmmerung  would  bring  a  laugh 
from  a  Bowery  audience:  some  flat  scenery  flaps 
over,  a  number  of  chorus  ladies  fall  on  their  knees, 
there  is  much  bulging  about  of  a  canvas  sea,  and  a 
few  red  lights  appear  in  the  sky ;  the  transforma- 
tion scenes  in  Parsifal  are  carried  out  with  as  lit- 
tle fidelity  to  symbolism,  or  truth,  or  beauty ;  and 
the  throwing  of  the  lance  in  Parsifal  is  always 
seemingly  a  wire  trick  rather  than  a  magical  one. 
The  scenery  for  the  Wagner  dramas,  in  all  the 
theatres  where  I  have  seen  and  heard  them,  has 
been  built  (and  a  great  deal  of  it  in  recent  years 
from  new  designs)  with  a  seemingly  absolute  ig- 
norance or  determined  evasion  of  the  fact  that 
there  are  artists  who  are  now  working  in  the  thea- 
tre. In  making  this  statement  I  can  speak  per- 
sonally of  performances  I  have  seen  at  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House,  New  York ;  the  Auditorium, 
Chicago;  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  London;  La 
Scala,  Milan;  the  Opera,  Paris;  and  the  Prinz- 
Regenten-Theatre  in  Munich.  Are  there  theatres 
where  the  Wagner  dramas  are  better  given  ?  I  do 
not  think  so.  Compare  the  scenery  of  Gotter- 
ddmmerung at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  with 
[144] 


Wagner 's    Ideals? 

that  of  Boris  Godunow,  and  you  will  see  how  little 
care  is  being  taken  of  Wagner's  ideals.  In  the 
one  case  the  flimsiest  sort  of  badly  painted  and 
badly  lighted  canvas,  mingled  indiscriminately 
with  plastic  objects,  boughs,  branches,  etc.,  placed 
next  to  painted  boughs  and  branches,  an  effect 
calculated  to  throw  the  falsity  of  the  whole  scene 
into  relief;  in  the  other  case,  an  example  of  a 
scene-painter's  art  wrought  to  give  the  highest  ef- 
fect to  the  drama  it  decorates.  Take  the  decora- 
tion of  the  hall  of  the  Gibichs  in  which  long  scenes 
are  enacted  in  both  the  first  and  last  acts  of  Got- 
terddmmerung.  The  Gibichs  are  a  savage,  war- 
like, sinister,  primitive  race.  Now  it  is  not  neces- 
sary that  the  setting  in  itself  be  strong,  but  it 
must  suggest  strength  to  the  spectator.  There 
is  no  need  to  bring  stone  blocks  or  wood  blocks  on 
the  stage;  the  artist  may  work  in  black  velvet  if 
he  wishes  (it  was  of  this  material  that  Professor 
Roller  contrived  a  dungeon  cell  in  Fidelio  which 
seemed  to  be  built  of  stone  ten  feet  thick).  It  will 
be  admitted,  I  think,  by  any  one  who  has  seen  the 
setting  in  question  that  it  is  wholly  inadequate  to 
express  the  meaning  of  the  drama.  The  scenes 
could  be  sung  with  a  certain  effect  in  a  Christian 
Science  temple,  but  no  one  will  deny,  I  should  say, 
that  the  effect  of  the  music  may  be  greatly  height- 
[145] 


Shall    We    Realize 

ened  by  proper  attention  to  the  stage  decoration 
and  the  movement  of  the  characters  in  relation  to 
the  lighting  and  decoration.  (I  have  used  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House,  in  this  instance,  as  a 
convenient  illustration;  but  the  scenery  there  is 
no  worse,  on  the  whole,  than  it  is  in  many  of  the 
other  theatres  named.) 

The  secret  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  matter  is 
that  the  directors  of  the  singing  theatres  wish  to 
save  themselves  trouble.  They  will  spend  neither 
money  nor  energy  in  righting  this  wrong.  It  is 
easier  to  trust  to  tradition  on  the  one  hand  and  ex- 
pediency on  the  other  than  it  would  be  to  engage 
an  expert  (one  not  concerned  with  what  had  been 
done,  but  one  concerned  with  what  to  do)  to  pro- 
duce the  works.  Carmen  was  losing  its  popular- 
ity in  this  country  when  Emma  Calve,  who  had 
broken  all  the  rules  made  for  the  part  by  Galli- 
Marie,  enchanted  opera-goers  with  her  fantastic 
conception  of  the  gipsy  girl.  Bizet's  work  had 
dropped  out  of  the  repertoire  again  when  Mme. 
Bressler-Gianoli  arrived  and  carried  it  trium- 
phantly through  nearly  a  score  of  performances 
during  the  first  season  of  Oscar  Hammerstein's 
Manhattan  Opera  House.  Geraldine  Farrar  and 
Toscanini  resuscitated  the  Spanish  jade  a  third 
time.  An  Olive  Fremstad  or  a  Lilli  Lehmann  or  a 
[146] 


Wagner  's    Ideals? 

Milka  Ternina  can  perform  a  like  office  for  Got- 
terdammerung  or  Tristan  und  Isolde;  but  it  is  to  a 
new  producer,  an  Adolphe  Appia  or  a  Gordon 
Craig,  that  the  theatre  director  must  look  for  the 
final  salvation  of  Wagner,  through  the  complete 
realization  of  his  own  ideals.  It  must  be  obvious 
to  any  one  that  the  more  completely  the  meaning 
of  his  plays  is  exposed  by  the  decoration,  the  light- 
ing and  the  action,  the  greater  the  effect. 

Adolphe  Appia  wrote  a  book  called  "  Die  Musik 
und  die  Inscenierung,"  which  was  published  in  Ger- 
man in  1899.  (An  earlier  work,  "  La  mise-en- 
scene  du  drame  Wagnerien,"  appeared  in  Paris  in 
1893.)  Since  then  his  career  has  been  strangely 
obscure  for  one  whose  effect  on  artists  working  at 
stage  decoration  has  been  greater  than  that  of  any 
other  single  man.  In  the  second  edition  of  his 
book,  "  On  the  Art  of  the  Theatre,"  Gordon  Craig, 
in  a  footnote,  speaks  thus  of  Appia :  "  Appia, 
the  foremost  stage-decorator  of  Europe  (the  ital- 
ics are  mine)  is  not  dead.  I  was  told  that  he  was 
no  more  with  us,  so,  in  the  first  edition  of  this 
book,  I  included  him  among  the  shades.  I  first 
saw  three  examples  of  his  work  in  1908,  and  I 
wrote  a  friend  asking,  '  Where  is  Appia  and  how 
can  we  meet?'  My  friend  replied,  'Poor  Appia 
died  some  years  ago.'  This  winter  (1912)  I  saw 
[  147  ] 


Shall    We    Realize 

some  of  Appia's  designs  in  a  portfolio  belonging 
to  Prince  Wolkonsky.  They  were  divine;  and  I 
was  told  that  the  designer  was  still  living." 

Loomis  Taylor,  who,  during  the  season  of  1914- 
15,  staged  the  Wagner  operas  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  (and  it  was  not  his  fault  that  the 
staging  was  not  improved;  there  is  no  stage  di- 
rector now  working  who  has  more  belief  in  and 
knowledge  of  the  artists  of  the  theatre  than  Loo- 
mis  Taylor)  has  written  me,  in  response  to  a 
query,  the  following  regarding  Appia :  "  Adolphe 
Appia,  I  think,  is  a  French-Swiss;  he  is  a  young 
man.  The  title  of  the  book  which  made  him  fa- 
mous, in  its  German  translation,  is  '  Die  Musik 
und  die  Inscenierung.'  It  was  translated  from  the 
French  by  Princess  Cantacuzene.  .  .  .  Five  years 
ago  I  was  told  by  Mrs.  Houston  Stewart  Chamber- 
lain that  Appia  was  slowly  but  surely  starving  to 
death  in  some  picturesque  surroundings  in  Swit- 
zerland. I  then  tried  to  get  various  people  in 
Germany  interested  in  him,  also  proposing  him  to 
Hagemann  as  scenic  artist  for  Mannheim.  Two 
years  later,  before  his  starving  process  had 
reached  its  conclusion,  I  heard  of  him  as  collabo- 
rator with  Jaques-Dalcroze  at  his  temple  of 
rhythm  on  the  banks  of  the  Elbe,  outside  of  Dres- 
den, where,  I  think,  up  to  the  outbreak  of  the  war, 
[148] 


Wagner's    Ideals? 

Appia  was  doing  very  good  work,  but  what  has  be- 
come of  him  since  I  do  not  know. 

"  His  book  is  very  valuable ;  his  suggestions  go 
beyond  the  possibilities  of  the  average  Hof  thea- 
tre, while  in  Bayreuth  they  have  a  similar  effect  to 
a  drop  of  water  upon  a  stone,  sun-burned  by  the 
rays  of  Cosima's  traditions.  By  being  one  of  the 
first  —  if  not  the  first  —  to  put  in  writing  the  in- 
consistency of  using  painted  perspective  scenery 
and  painted  shadows  with  human  beings  on  the 
stage,  Appia  became  the  fighter  for  plastic  scen- 
ery. His  sketch  of  the  Walkuren  rock  is  the  most 
beautiful  scenic  conception  of  Act  III,  Die  Wai- 
kure,  I  know  of  or  could  imagine.  To  my  knowl- 
edge no  theatre  has  ever  produced  anything  in  con- 
formity with  Appia's  sketches." 

In  a  letter  to  me  Hiram  Kelly  Moderwell,  whose 
book,  "  The  Theatre  of  To-day,"  is  the  best  ex- 
position yet  published  of  the  aims  and  results  of 
the  artists  who  are  working  in  the  theatre,  writes 
as  follows  in  regard  to  Appia :  "  Appia  is  now 
with  Dalcroze  at  Hellerau  and  I  believe  has  de- 
signed and  perhaps  produced  all  the  things  that 
have  been  done  there  in  the  last  year  or  two.  Pre- 
vious to  that  I  am  almost  certain  he  had  done  no 
actual  stage  work.  Nobody  else  would  give  him 
free  rein.  But,  as  you  know,  he  thought  every- 
[149] 


Shall    We    Realize 

thing  out  carefully  as  though  he  were  doing  the 
actual  practical  stage  work.  .  .  .  By  this  time  he 
has  hit  his  '  third  manner.'  It's  all  cubes  and 
parallelograms.  It  sounds  like  hell  on  paper  but 
Maurice  Browne  told  me  it  is  very  fine  stuff. 
Browne  says  it  is  as  much  greater  than  Craig  as 
Craig  is  greater  than  anybody  else.  All  the  recent 
Hellerau  plays  are  in  this  third  manner.  They 
are  lighted  by  Salzmann,  indirect  and  diffused 
lighting,  but  not  in  the  Fortuny  style.  I  imagine 
the  Hellerau  stuff  is  rather  too  precious  to  go  on 
the  ordinary  stage." 

Mr.  Moderwell's  description  of  Appia's  book  is 
so  completely  illuminating  that  I  feel  I  cannot  do 
better  than  to  quote  the  entire  passage  from  "  The 
Theatre  of  To-day":  "Before  his  (Gordon 
Craig's)  influence  was  felt,  however,  Adolphe  Ap- 
pia,  probably  the  most  powerful  theorist  of  the 
new  movement,  had  written  his  remarkable  book, 
4  Die  Musik  und  die  Inscenierung.'  In  this,  as  an 
artist,  he  attempted  to  deduce  from  the  content  of 
the  Wagner  music  dramas  the  proper  stage  set- 
tings for  them.  His  conclusions  anticipated  much 
of  the  best  work  of  recent  years  and  his  theories 
have  been  put  into  practice  in  more  or  less  modi- 
fied form  on  a  great  many  stages  —  not  so  much 
[150] 


Wagner 's    Ideals? 

(if  at  all)  for  the  Wagner  dramas  themselves, 
which  are  under  a  rigid  tradition  (the  *  what  the 
Master  wished'  myth),  but  for  operas  and  the 
more  lyric  plays  where  the  producer  has  artistic 
ability  and  a  free  hand  in  applying  it. 

"  Appia  started  with  the  principle  that  the  set- 
ting should  make  the  actor  the  all-important  fact 
on  the  stage.  He  saw  the  realistic  impossibility 
of  the  realistic  setting,  and  destructively  analyzed 
the  current  modes  of  lighting  and  perspective  ef- 
fects. But,  unlike  the  members  of  the  more  con- 
ventional modern  school,  he  insisted  that  the  stage 
is  a  three-dimension  space  and  must  be  handled  so 
as  to  make  its  depth  living.  He  felt  a  contradic- 
tion between  the  living  actor  and  the  dead  setting. 
He  wished  to  bind  them  into  one  whole  —  the 
drama.  How  was  this  to  be  done? 

"  Appia's  answer  to  this  question  is  his  chief 
claim  to  greatness  —  genius  almost.  His  answer 
was  — '  By  means  of  the  lighting.'  He  saw  the 
deadliness  of  the  contemporary  methods  of  light- 
ing, and  previsaged  with  a  sort  of  inspiration  the 
possibilities  of  new  methods  which  have  since  be- 
come common.  This  was  at  a  time  when  he  had  at 
his  disposal  none  of  the  modern  lighting  systems. 
His  foreseeing  of  modern  practice  by  means  of 
[151] 


Shall    We    Realize 

rigid  Teutonic  logic  in  the  service  of  the  artist's  in- 
tuition makes  him  one  of  the  two  or  three  foremost 
theorists  of  the  modern  movement. 

"  The  lighting,  for  Appia,  is  the  spiritual  core, 
the  soul  of  the  drama.  The  whole  action  should  be 
contained  in  it,  somewhat  as  we  feel  the  physical 
body  of  a  friend  to  be  contained  in  his  personality. 
Appia's  second  great  principle  is  closely  connected 
with  this.  While  the  setting  is  obviously  inani- 
mate, the  actor  must  in  every  way  be  emphasized 
and  made  living.  And  this  can  be  accomplished, 
he  says,  only  by  a  wise  use  of  lighting,  since  it  is 
the  lights  and  shadows  on  a  human  body  which  re- 
veal to  our  eyes  the  fact  that  the  body  is  *  plastic  ' 
—  that  is,  a  flexible  body  of  three  dimensions. 
Appia  would  make  the  setting  suggest  only  the  at- 
mosphere, not  the  reality  of  the  thing  it  stands 
for,  and  would  soften  and  beautify  it  with  the 
lights.  The  actor  he  would  throw  constantly  into 
prominence  while  keeping  him  always  a  part  of  the 
scene.  All  the  elements  and  all  the  action  of  the 
drama  he  would  bind  together  by  the  lights  and 
shadows. 

"  With  the  most  minute  care  each  detail  of 
lighting,  each  position  of  each  character,  in  Ap- 
pia's productions  is  studied  out  so  that  the  dra- 
matic meaning  shall  always  be  evident.  Hence 
[152] 


Wagner's    Ideals? 

any  setting  of  his  contains  vastly  more  thought 
than  is  visible  at  a  glance.  It  is  designed  to  serve 
for  every  exigency  of  the  scene  —  so  that  a  char- 
acter here  shall  be  in  full  light  at  a  certain  point, 
while  talking  directly  to  a  character  who  must  be 
quite  in  the  dark,  or  that  the  light  shall  just  touch 
the  fringe  of  one  character's  robe  as  she  dies,  or 
that  the  action  shall  all  take  place  unimpeded, 
and  so  on.  At  the  same  time,  needless  to  say,  Ap- 
pia's  stage  pictures  are  of  the  highest  artistic 
beauty."  1 

In  Appia's  design  for  the  third  act  of  Die  Wai- 
Jcure,  so  enthusiastically  praised  by  Loomis  Tay- 
lor, the  rock  of  the  valkyries  juts  like  a  huge 
promontory  of  black  across  the  front  of  the  scene, 
silhouetted  against  a  clouded  sky.  So  all  the  fig- 
ures of  the  valkyries  stand  high  on  the  rock  and 
are  entirely  silhouetted,  while  Sieglinde  below  in 
front  of  the  rock  in  the  blackness,  is  hidden  from 
the  rage  of  the  approaching  Wotan.  Any  one 
who  has  seen  this  scene  as  it  is  ordinarily  staged, 
without  any  reference  to  beauty  or  reason,  will 
appreciate  even  this  meagre  description  of  an  art- 
ist's intention,  which  has  not  yet  been  carried 

i  For  a  further  discussion  of  Appia's  work  and  its  prob- 
able influence  on  Gordon  Craig,  see  an  article  "  Adolphe 
Appia  and  Gordon  Craig"  in  my  book  "Music  After  the 
Great  War." 

[153] 


Shall    We    Realize 

out  in  any  theatre  with  which  I  have  acquaint- 
ance. 

Appia's  design  for  the  first  scene  of  Parsifal 
discloses  a  group  of  boughless,  straight-stemmed 
pines,  towering  to  heaven  like  the  cathedral  group 
at  Vallombrosa.  Overhead  the  dense  foliage  hides 
the  forest  paths  from  the  sun.  Light  comes  in 
through  the  centre  at  the  back,  where  there  is  a 
vista  of  plains  across  to  the  mountains,  on  which 
one  may  imagine  the  castle  of  the  Grail.  He 
places  a  dynamic  and  dramatic  value  on  light 
which  it  is  highly  important  to  understand  in  esti- 
mating his  work.  For  example,  his  lighting  of  the 
second  act  of  Tristan  und  Isolde  culminates  in  a 
pitch-dark  stage  during  the  singing  of  the  love- 
duet.  This  artist  has  designed  the  scenery  for  all 
the  Ring  and  has  indicated  throughout  what  the 
lighting  and  action  shall  be. 

I  do  not  know  that  Gordon  Craig  has  turned 
his  attention  to  any  particular  Wagner  drama,  al- 
though he  has  made  suggestions  for  several  of 
them,  but  he  could,  if  he  would,  devise  a  mode  of 
stage  decoration  which  would  make  the  plays  and 
their  action  as  appealing  in  their  beauty  as  the 
music  and  the  singing  often  now  are.  In  his  book, 
"  On  the  Art  of  the  Theatre,"  he  has  been  explicit 
in  his  descriptions  of  his  designs  for  Macbeth,  and 
[154] 


Wagner  's    Ideals? 

the  rugged  strength  and  symbolism  of  his  settings 
and  ideas  for  that  tragedy  proclaim  perhaps  his 
best  right  to  be  a  leader  in  the  reformation  of  the 
Wagner  dramas,  although,  even  then,  it  must  be 
confessed  that  Craig  is  derived  in  many  instances 
from  Appia,  whom  Craig  himself  hails  as  the  fore- 
most stage  decorator  of  Europe  to-day. 

Read  Gordon  Craig  on  Macbeth  and  you  will 
get  an  idea  of  how  an  artist  would  go  to  work  on 
Tristan  und  Isolde  or  Goiter dammerung.  "  I  see 
two  things,  I  see  a  lofty  and  steep  rock,  and  I  see 
the  moist  cloud  which  envelops  the  head  of  this 
rock.  That  is  to  say,  a  place  for  fierce  and  war- 
like men  to  inhabit,  a  place  for  phantoms  to  nest 
in.  Ultimately  this  moisture  will  destroy  the  rock ; 
ultimately  these  spirits  will  destroy  the  men. 
Now  then,  you  are  quick  in  your  question  as  to 
what  actually  to  create  for  the  eye.  I  answer  as 
swiftly  —  place  there  a  rock !  Let  it  mount  high. 
Swiftly  I  tell  you,  convey  the  idea  of  a  mist  which 
hangs  at  the  head  of  this  rock.  Now,  have  I  de- 
parted at  all  for  one-eighth  of  an  inch  from  the 
vision  which  I  saw  in  the  mind's  eye? 

"  But  you  ask  me  what  form  this  rock  shall  take 

and  what  colour?     What  are  the  lines  which  are 

the  lofty  lines,  and  which  are  to  be  seen  in  any 

lofty  cliff?     Go  to  them,  glance  but  a  moment  at 

[155] 


Shall    We    Realize 

them ;  now  quickly  set  them  down  on  your  paper ; 
the  lines  and  their  direction,  never  mind  the  cliff. 
Do  not  be  afraid  to  let  them  go  high ;  they  cannot 
go  high  enough;  and  remember  that  on  a  sheet  of 
paper  which  is  but  two  inches  square  you  can  make 
a  line  which  seems  to  tower  miles  in  the  air,  and 
you  can  do  the  same  on  your  stage,  for  it  is  all  a 
matter  of  proportion  and  has  nothing  to  do  with 
actuality. 

"  You  ask  about  the  colours  ?  What  are  the 
colours  which  Shakespeare  has  indicated  for  us? 
Do  not  first  look  at  Nature,  but  look  at  the  play 
of  the  poet.  Two,  one  for  the  rock,  the  man ;  one 
for  the  mist,  the  spirit.  Now,  quickly,  take  and 
accept  this  statement  from  me.  Touch  not  a  sin- 
gle other  colour,  but  only  these  two  colours 
through  your  whole  progress  of  designing  your 
scenes  and  your  costumes,  yet  forget  not  that  each 
colour  contains  many  variations.  If  you  are  timid 
for  a  moment  and  mistrust  yourself  or  what  I  tell, 
when  the  scene  is  finished  you  will  not  see  with 
your  eye  the  effect  you  have  seen  with  your  mind's 
eye  when  looking  at  the  picture  which  Shake- 
speare has  indicated." 

The  producers  of  the  Wagner  music  dramas  do 
not  seem  to  have  heard  of  Adolphe  Appia.  Gor- 
don Craig  is  a  myth  to  them.  Reinhardt  does  not 
[156] 


Wagner  's    Ideals? 

exist.  Have  they  ever  seen  the  name  of  Stanislaw- 
sky?  Do  they  know  where  his  theatre  is?  Would 
they  consider  it  sensible  to  spend  three  years  in 
mounting  Hamlet?  Is  the  name  of  Fokine  known 
to  them?  of  Bakst?  N.  Roerich,  Nathalie  Gontcha- 
rova,  Alexandre  Benois,  Theodore  Federowsky? 
.  .  .  One  could  go  on  naming  the  artists  of 
the  theatre.  (Recently  there  have  been  evidences 
of  an  art  movement  in  the  theatre  in  America. 
Joseph  Urban,  first  in  Boston  with  the  Boston 
Opera  Company,  and  later  in  New  York  with  vari- 
ous theatrical  enterprises,  may  be  mentioned  as  an 
important  figure  in  this  movement.  His  settings 
for  Monna  Vanna  were  particularly  beautiful  and 
he  really  seems  to  have  revolutionized  the  staging 
of  revues  and  similar  light  musical  pieces.  Robert 
Jones  has  done  some  very  good  work.  I  think  he 
was  responsible  for  the  imaginative  staging  [in 
Gordon  Craig's  manner,  to  be  sure]  of  the  inner 
scenes  in  the  Shakespeare  mask,  Caliban.  But  I 
would  give  the  Washington  Square  Players  credit 
for  the  most  successful  experiments  which  have 
been  made  in  New  York.  In  every  instance  they 
have  attempted  to  suit  the  staging  to  the  mood  of 
the  drama,  and  have  usually  succeeded  admirably, 
at  slight  expense.  They  have  developed  a  good 
deal  of  previously  untried  talent  in  this  direction. 
[157] 


Shall    We    Realize 

Lee  Simonson,  in  particular,  has  achieved  distinc- 
tive results.  I  have  seldom  seen  better  work  of 
its  kind  on  the  stage  than  his  settings  for  The 
Magical  City,  Pierre  Patelin,  and  The  Seagull. 
At  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  no  account 
seems  to  be  taken  of  this  art  movement,  although 
during  the  season  of  1915—16  in  The  Taming  of 
the  Shrew  an  attempt  was  made  to  emulate  the 
very  worst  that  has  been  done  in  modern  Ger- 
many. ) 

For  several  years  the  Russian  Ballet,  under  the 
direction  of  Serge  de  Diaghilew,  has  been  pre- 
senting operas  and  ballets  in  the  European  capi- 
tals, notably  in  London  and  Paris  for  long  seasons 
each  summer  (the  Ballet  has  been  seen  in  America 
since  this  article  was  written).  A  number  of  art- 
ists and  a  number  of  stage  directors  have  been 
working  together  in  staging  these  works,  which, 
as  a  whole,  may  be  conceded  to  be  the  most  com- 
pletely satisfying  productions  which  have  been 
made  on  the  stage  during  the  progress  of  this  new 
movement  in  the  theatre.  One  or  two  of  the  Ger- 
man productions,  or  Gordon  Craig's  Hamlet  in 
Stanislawsky's  theatre,  may  have  surpassed  them 
in  the  sterner  qualities  of  beauty,  the  serious  truth 
of  their  art,  but  none  has  surpassed  them  in  bril- 
liancy, in  barbaric  splendour,  or  in  their  almost 
[158] 


Wagner  's    Ideals? 

complete  solution  of  the  problems  of  mingling  peo- 
ple with  painted  scenery.  The  Russians  have 
solved  these  problems  by  a  skilful  (and  passion- 
ately liberal)  use  of  colour  and  light.  The  painted 
surfaces  are  mostly  flat,  to  be  sure,  and  crudely 
painted,  but  the  tones  of  the  canvas  are  so  divinely 
contrived  to  mingle  with  the  tones  of  the  costumes 
that  the  effect  of  an  animated  picture  is  arrived 
at  with  seemingly  very  little  pother.  This  method 
of  staging  is  not,  in  most  instances,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, adapted  to  the  requirements  of  the  Wag- 
ner dramas.  Bakst,  I  imagine,  would  find  it  dif- 
ficult to  cramp  his  talents  in  the  field  of  Wagner- 
ism,  though  he  should  turn  out  a  very  pretty  edi- 
tion of  Das  Rheingold.  Roerich,  on  the  other 
hand,  who  designed  the  scenery  and  costumes  for 
Prince  Igor  as  it  was  presented  in  Paris  and  Lon- 
don in  the  summer  of  1914,  would  find  no  difficulty 
in  staging  Gotterdammerung.  The  problem  is  the 
same:  to  convey  an  impression  of  barbarism  and 
strength.  One  scene  I  remember  in  Borodine's 
opera  in  which  an  open  window,  exposing  only  a 
clear  stretch  of  sky  —  the  rectangular  opening 
occupied  half  of  the  wall  at  the  back  of  the  room 
—  was  made  to  act  the  drama.  A  few  red  lights 
skilfully  played  on  the  curtain  representing  the 
sky  made  it  seem  as  if  in  truth  a  city  were  burning 
[159] 


Shall    We    Realize 

and  I  thought  how  a  similar  simple  contrivance 
might  make  a  more  imaginative  final  scene  for  Got- 
terdammerung. 

It  is,  however,  in  their  handling  of  mechanical 
problems  that  the  Russians  could  assist  the  new 
producer  of  the  Wagner  dramas  to  his  greatest 
advantage.  In  Rimsky-Korsakow's  opera,  The 
Golden  Cock,  for  instance,  the  bird  of  the  title  has 
several  appearances  to  make.  Now  there  was  no 
attempt  made,  in  the  Russians'  stage  version  of 
this  work,  to  have  this  bird  jiggle  along  a  sup- 
posedly invisible  wire,  in  reality  quite  visible,  flap- 
ping his  artificial  wings  and  wiggling  his  insecure 
feet,  as  in  the  usual  productions  of  Siegfried.  In- 
stead the  bird  was  built  solid  like  a  bronze  cock  for 
a  drawing  room  table ;  he  did  not  flap  his  wings ; 
his  feet  were  motionless;  when  the  action  of  the 
drama  demanded  his  presence  he  was  let  down  on  a 
wire ;  there  was  no  pretence  of  a  lack  of  machinery. 
The  effect,  however,  was  vastly  more  imaginative 
and  diverting  than  that  in  Siegfried,  because  it 
was  more  simple.  In  like  manner  King  Dodon, 
in  the  same  opera,  mounted  a  wooden  horse  on 
wheels  to  go  to  the  wars,  and  the  animals  he  cap- 
tured were  also  made  of  wood,  studded  with  bril- 
liant beads.  In  Richard  Strauss's  ballet,  The 
Legend  of  Joseph,  the  figure  of  the  guardian  angel 
[160] 


Wagner  's    Ideals? 

was  not  let  down  on  a  wire  from  the  flies  as  he 
might  have  been  in  a  Drury  Lane  pantomime ;  the 
naive  nature  of  the  work  was  preserved  by  his 
nonchalant  entrance  across  the  loggia  and  down  a 
flight  of  steps,  exactly  the  entrance  of  all  the  hu- 
man characters  of  the  ballet.  I  do  not  mean  to 
suggest  that  these  particular  expedients  would  fit 
into  the  Wagner  dramas  so  well  as  they  do  into 
works  of  a  widely  different  nature.  They  should, 
however,  indicate  to  stage  directors  the  possibility 
of  finding  a  method  to  suit  the  case  in  each  in- 
stance. And  I  do  assert,  without  hope  or  fear  of 
contradiction,  that  Brunnhilde  with  a  wooden 
horse  would  challenge  less  laughter  than  she  does 
with  the  sorry  nags  which  are  put  at  her  disposal 
and  which  Siegfried  later  takes  down  the  river 
with  him.  It  is  only  down  the  river  that  one  can 
sell  such  horses.  As  for  the  bird,  there  are  bird 
trainers  whose  business  it  is  to  teach  pigeons  to 
fly  from  pillar  to  post  in  the  music-halls;  their 
services  might  be  contracted  for  to  make  that  pas- 
sage in  Siegfried  a  little  less  distracting.  The  dif- 
ficulties connected  with  this  particular  mechanical 
episode  (and  a  hundred  others)  might  be  avoided 
by  a  different  lighting  of  the  scene.  If  the  tree- 
tops  of  the  forest  were  submerged  in  the  deepest 
shadows,  as  well  they  might  be,  the  flight  of  the 
[161] 


Shall    We    Realize 

bird  on  a  wire  might  be  accomplished  with  some 
sort  of  illusion.  But  why  should  one  see  the  bird 
at  all?  One  hears  it  constantly  as  it  warbles  ad- 
vice to  the  hero. 

The  new  Wagner  producer  must  possess  many 
qualities  if  he  wishes  to  place  these  works  on  a 
plane  where  they  may  continue  to  challenge  the  ad- 
miration of  the  world.  Wagner  himself  was  more 
concerned  with  his  ideals  than  he  was  with  their 
practical  solution.  Besides,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  taste  in  stage  art  and  improvements  in  stage 
mechanism  have  made  great  strides  in  the  last 
decade.  The  plaster  wall,  for  instance,  which  has 
replaced  in  many  foreign  theatres  the  flapping, 
swaying,  wrinkled,  painted  canvas  sky  cyclorama 
(still  in  use  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House;  a 
vast  sum  was  paid  for  it  a  few  years  ago)  is  a  new 
invention  and  one  which,  when  appropriately 
lighted,  perfectly  counterfeits  the  appearance  of 
the  sky  in  its  different  moods.  (So  far  as  I  know 
the  only  theatre  in  New  York  with  this  apparatus 
is  the  Neighborhood  Playhouse  on  Grand  Street.) 
In  Houston  Stewart  Chamberlain's  "  Richard 
Wagner,"  published  in  1897,  I  find  the  following: 

"Wagner  foresaw  that  in  the  new  drama  the 
whole  principle  of  the  stage  scenery  must  undergo 
a  complete  alteration  but  did  not  particularize  in 
[162] 


Wagner  's    Ideals? 

detail.  The  Meister  says  that  *  music  resolves  the 
rigid  immovable  groundwork  of  the  scenery  into  a 
liquid,  yielding,  ethereal  surface,  capable  of  re- 
ceiving impressions ' ;  but  to  prevent  a  painful 
conflict  between  what  is  seen  and  what  is  heard, 
the  stage  picture,  too,  must  be  relieved  from  the 
curse  of  rigidity  which  now  rests  upon  it.  The 
only  way  of  doing  this  is  by  managing  the  light  in 
a  manner  which  its  importance  deserves,  that  its 
office  may  no  longer  be  confined  to  illuminating 
painted  walls.  ...  I  am  convinced  that  the  next 
great  advance  in  the  drama  will  be  of  this  nature, 
in  the  art  of  the  eye,  and  not  in  music."  (The 
passage  quoted  further  refers  to  Appia's  first  book, 
published  in  French.  Chamberlain  was  a  close 
friend  of  Appia  and  "  Die  Musik  und  die  Inscenie- 
rung"  is  dedicated  to  him.) 

It  must  also  be  understood  that  Wagner  in  some 
instances,  when  the  right  medium  of  his  expression 
was  clear  to  him,  made  concessions  to  what  he  con- 
sidered the  unintelligence  of  the  public.  Wotan's 
waving  of  the  sword  is  a  case  in  point.  The  motiv 
without  the  object  he  did  not  think  would  carry 
out  the  effect  he  intended  to  convey,  although  the 
absurdity  of  Wotan's  founding  his  new  humanity 
on  the  power  of  the  degenerate  giants  must  have 
been  apparent  to  him.  Sometimes  the  Master 
[163] 


Shall    We   Realize 

changed  his  mind.  Paris  would  have  none  of 
Tannhduser  without  a  ballet  and  so  Wagner  re- 
wrote the  first  act  and  now  the  Paris  version  of  the 
opera  is  the  accepted  one.  In  any  case  it  must 
be  apparent  that  what  Wagner  wanted  was  a 
fusion  of  the  arts,  and  a  completely  artistic  one. 
So  that  if  any  one  can  think  of  a  better  way  of 
presenting  his  dramas  than  one  based  on  the  very 
halting  staging  which  he  himself  devised  (with  the 
limited  means  at  his  command)  as  perhaps  the  best 
possible  to  exploit  his  ideals,  that  person  should  be 
hailed  as  Wagner's  friend.  It  must  be  seen,  at 
any  current  presentation  of  his  dramas,  that  his 
way,  or  Cosima's,  is  not  the  best  way.  The  single 
performances  which  have  made  the  deepest  impres- 
sion on  the  public  have  deviated  the  farthest  from 
tradition.  Olive  Fremstad's  Isolde  was  far  from 
traditional.  Her  very  costume  of  deep  green  was 
a  flaunt  in  the  face  of  Wagner's  conventionally 
white  robed  heroine.  In  the  first  act,  after  taking 
the  love-potion,  she  did  not  indulge  in  any  of  the 
swimming  movements  usually  employed  by  so- 
pranos to  pass  the  time  away  until  the  occasion 
came  to  sing  again.  She  stood  as  a  woman  dazed, 
passing  her  hands  futilely  before  her  eyes,  and  it 
was  to  be  noted  that  in  some  instances  her  action 
had  its  supplement  in  the  action  of  the  tenor  who 
[164] 


Wagner  's    Ideals? 

was  singing  with  her,  although,  in  other  instances, 
he  would  continue  to  swim  in  the  most  highly  ap- 
proved Bayreuth  fashion.  But  Olive  Fremstad, 
artist  that  she  was,  could  not  completely  divorce 
herself  from  tradition ;  in  some  cases  she  held  to  it 
against  her  judgment.  The  stage  directions  for 
the  second  act  of  Parsifal,  for  example,  require 
Kundry  to  lie  on  her  couch,  tempting  the  hero,  for 
a  very  long  time.  Great  as  Fremstad's  Kundry 
was,  it  might  have  been  improved  if  she  had  al- 
lowed herself  to  move  more  freely  along  the  lines 
that  her  artistic  conscience  dictated.  Her  Elsa 
was  a  beautiful  example  of  the  moulding  of  the  tra- 
ditional playing  of  a  role  into  a  picturesque,  imag- 
inative figure,  a  feat  similar  to  that  which  Mary 
Garden  accomplished  in  her  delineation  of  Mar- 
guerite in  Faust.  Mme.  Fremstad  always  sang 
Briinnhilde  in  Gotterdammerung  throughout  with 
the  fire  of  genius.  This  was  surely  some  wild  crea- 
ture, a  figure  of  Greek  tragedy,  a  Norse  Elektra. 
The  superb  effect  she  wrought,  at  her  first  per- 
formance in  the  role,  with  the  scene  of  the  spear, 
was  never  tarnished  in  subsequent  performances. 
The  thrill  was  always  there. 

In  face  of  acting  and  singing  like  that  one  can 
afford  to  ignore  Wagner's  theory  about  the  wed- 
ding of  the  arts.     A  Fremstad  or  a  Lehmann  can 
[165] 


Shall   We   Realize 

carry  a  Wagner  drama  to  a  triumphant  conclusion 
with  few,  if  any,  accessories,  but  great  singing 
artists  are  rare;  nor  does  a  performance  of  this 
kind  meet  the  requirements  of  the  Wagner  ideal, 
in  which  the  picture,  the  word,  and  the  tone  shall 
all  be  a  part  of  the  drama  (Wort-Tondrama). 
Wagner  invented  a  new  form  of  stage  art  but  only 
in  a  small  measure  did  he  succeed  in  perfecting  a 
method  for  its  successful  presentation.  The 
artist-producer  must  arise  to  repair  this  deficiency, 
to  become  the  dominating  force  in  future  perform- 
ances, to  see  that  the  scenes  are  painted  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  principles  of  beauty  and  dra- 
matic fitness,  to  see  that  they  are  lighted  to  ex- 
press the  secrets  of  the  drama,  as  Appia  says  they 
should  be,  to  see  that  the  action  is  sympathetic 
with  the  decoration,  and  that  the  decoration  never 
encumbers  the  action,  that  the  lighting  assists 
both.  There  never  has  been  a  production  of  the 
Ring  which  has  in  any  sense  realized  its  true  possi- 
bilities, the  ideal  of  Wagner. 


June  24, 


[166] 


The     Bridge     Burners 

"  Zieh'hin!   ich   kann   dich    nicht   halten!" 

Der  Wanderer. 


The   Bridge   Burners 


IT  is  from  the  enemy  that  one  learns.  Riche- 
lieu and  other  great  men  have  found  it  folly 
to  listen  to  the  advice  of  friends  when  rancour, 
hatred,  and  jealousy  inspired  much  more  helpful 
suggestions.  And  it  occurred  to  me  recently  that 
the  friends  of  modern  music  were  doing  nothing  by 
way  of  describing  it.  They  are  content  to  like 
it.  I  must  confess  that  I  have  been  one  of  these. 
I  have  heard  first  performances  of  works  by  Rich- 
ard Strauss  and  Claude  Debussy  on  occasions  when 
the  programme  notes  gave  one  cause  for  dread. 
At  these  times  I  have  often  been  pleasurably  ex- 
cited and  I  have  never  lacked  for  at  least  a  meas- 
ured form  of  en j  oyment  except  when  I  found  those 
gods  growing  a  bit  old.  The  English  critics  were 
right  when  they  labelled  The  Legend  of  Joseph 
Handelian.  The  latest  recital  of  Leo  Ornstein's 
which  I  heard  made  me  realize  that  even  the  ex- 
treme modern  music  evidently  protrudes  no  great 
perplexities  into  my  ears.  They  accept  it  all,  a 
good  deal  of  it  with  avidity,  some  with  the  real 
tribute  of  astonishment  which  goes  only  to  genius. 
On  the  whole,  I  think,  I  should  have  found  it  im- 
[169] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

possible  to  write  this  article  which,  with  a  new 
light  shining  on  my  paper,  is  dancing  from  under 
my  darting  typewriter  keys,  if  I  had  not  stumbled 
by  good  luck  into  the  camp  of  the  enemy.  For  I 
find  misunderstanding,  lack  of  sympathy,  and 
enmity  towards  the  new  music  to  a  certain  degree 
inspirational.  These  qualities,  projected,  have 
crystallized  impressions  in  my  mind,  which  might, 
under  other  circumstances,  have  remained  vague 
and,  in  a  sense,  I  think  I  may  make  bold  to  say, 
they  have  made  it  possible  for  me  to  synthesize  to 
a  greater  degree  than  has  hitherto  been  attempted, 
the  various  stimuli  and  progressive  gestures  of 
modern  music.  I  can  more  clearly  say  now  why 
I  like  it.  (If  I  were  to  tell  others  how  to  like  it  I 
should  be  forced  to  resort  to  a  single  sentence: 
"  Open  your  ears  ".) 

A  good  deal  of  this  new  insight  has  come  to  me 
through  assiduous  perusal  of  Mr.  Richard  Al- 
drich's  comment  on  musical  doings  in  the  columns 
of  the  "New  York  Times."  Mr.  Aldrich,  like 
many  another,  has  been  bewildered  and  annoyed  by 
a  good  deal  of  the  modern  music  played  (Heaven 
knows  that  there  is  little  enough  modern  music 
played  in  New  York.  Up  to  date  [April  16, 
1916]  there  has  been  nothing  of  Arnold  Schoen- 
berg  performed  this  season  later  than  his  Pelleas 
[170] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

und  Melisande  and  his  Kammersymphonie;  of 
Strawinsky  —  aside  from  the  three  slight  pieces 
for  string  quartet  —  nothing  later  than  Pe- 
trouchka.  Such  new  works  as  John  Alden  Car- 
penter's Adventures  in  a  Perambulator  and  En- 
rique Granados's  Goyescas  —  as  an  opera  —  do 
not  seriously  overtax  the  critical  ear)  but  he  has 
done  more  than  some  others  by  way  of  expressing 
the  causes  of  this  bewilderment  and  this  annoy- 
ance. Some  critics  neglect  the  subject  altogether 
but  Mr.  Aldrich  at  least  attempts  to  be  explana- 
tory. My  first  excerpt  from  his  writings  is 
clipped  from  an  article  in  the  "  New  York  Times  " 
of  December  5,  1915,  devoted  to  the  string  quar- 
tet music  of  Strawinsky,  performed  by  the  Flon- 
zaleys  at  ^Eolian  Hall  in  New  York  on  the  evening 
of  November  30 : 

"  So  far  as  this  particular  type  of  '  futurist ' 
music  is  concerned  it  seems  to  be  conditioned  on  an 
accompaniment  of  something  else  to  explain  it  from 
beginning  to  end." 

Is  this  a  reproach?  The  context  would  seem 
to  indicate  that  it  is.  If  so  it  seems  a  late  date 
in  which  to  hurl  anathema  at  programme  music. 
One  would  have  fancied  that  that  battle  had  al- 
ready been  fought  and  won  by  Ernest  Newman, 
Frederick  Niecks,  and  Lawrence  Oilman,  to  name 
[171] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

a  few  of  the  gladiators  for  the  cause.  Why  Mr. 
Aldrich,  having  swallowed  whole,  so  to  speak,  the 
tendency  of  music  during  a  century  of  its  develop- 
ment, should  suddenly  balk  at  music  which  re- 
quires explanation  I  cannot  imagine.  However, 
this  would  seem  to  be  the  point  he  makes  in  face 
of  the  fact  that  at  least  two-thirds  of  a  symphony 
society's  programme  is  made  up  of  programme  mu- 
sic. Berlioz  said  in  the  preface  to  his  Symphonic 
Fantastique,  "  The  plan  of  an  instrumental  drama, 
being  without  words,  requires  to  be  explained  be- 
forehand. The  programme  (which  is  indispensa- 
ble to  the  perfect  comprehension  of  the  dramatic 
plan  of  the  work)  ought  therefor  to  be  considered 
in  the  light  of  the  spoken  text  of  an  opera,  serving 
to  ...  indicate  the  character  and  expression." 
Ernest  Newman  built  up  an  elaborate  theory  on 
these  two  sentences,  a  theory  fully  expounded  in 
an  article  called  "  Programme  Music  "  published 
in  "  Music  Studies  "  (1905),  and  touched  on  else- 
where in  his  work  (at  some  length,  of  course,  in 
his  "  Richard  Strauss."  He  brings  out  the  facts. 
Representation  of  natural  sounds,  emotions,  and 
even  objects  —  or  attempts  at  it  —  in  early  music 
were  not  rare.  He  cites  the  justly  famous  Bible 
Sonatas  of  Kuhnau,  Rameau's  Sighs  and  Tender 
Plants,  Dittersdorf's  twelve  programme  sym- 
[172] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

phonies  illustrating  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  and 
John  Sebastian  Bach's  Capriccio  on  the  Departure 
of  my  Dearly  Beloved  Brother.  Beethoven  wrote 
a  Pastoral  Symphony  in  which  he  attempted  to 
imitate  the  sound  of  a  brook  and  the  call  of  a 
cuckoo.  There  is  also  a  storm  in  this  symphony. 
The  fact  that  Beethoven  denied  any  intention  of 
portraying  anything  but  "  pure  emotion  "  in  this 
symphony  is  evasion  and  humbug  as  Newman  very 
clearly  points  out.  From  what  do  these  emotions 
arise?  The  answer  is,  From  the  contemplation  of 
country  scenes.  The  auditor  without  a  pro- 
gramme will  not  find  the  symphony  so  enjoyable 
as  the  one  who  knows  what  awakened  the  emotions 
in  the  composer.  Beethoven  wrote  a  "  battle " 
symphony  too,  a  particularly  bad  one,  I  believe  (I 
have  never  seen  it  announced  for  performance). 
It  is  true,  however,  that  most  of  the  composers  of 
the  "  great "  period  were  content  to  number  their 
symphonies  and  to  call  their  piano  pieces  im- 
promptus, sonatas,  valses,  and  nocturnes.  Nous 
avons  change  tout  cela.  Schumann  was  one  of  the 
first  of  the  composers  of  the  nineteenth  century  to 
write  music  with  titles.  In  the  Carneval,  for  ex- 
ample, each  piece  is  explained  by  its  title.  And 
explanations,  or  shadows  of  explanations  (Cathe- 
dral, Rhenish,  Spring,  etc.),  hover  about  the 
[173] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

four  symphonies.  Berlioz,  of  course,  carried  the 
principle  of  programme  music  to  a  degree  that  was 
considered  absurd  in  his  own  time.  He  wrote  sym- 
phonies like  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  and  the  Fan- 
tastique  which  had  to  be  "  explained  from  begin- 
ning to  end."  Liszt  invented  the  symphonic  poem 
and  composed  pieces  which  are  only  to  be  listened 
to  after  one  has  read  the  poem  or  seen  the  picture 
which  they  describe.  Richard  Strauss  rounded 
out  the  form  and  put  the  most  elaborate  natural- 
istic details  into  such  works  as  Don  Quixote  and 
Till  Eulenspiegel.  Understanding  of  this  music 
and  complete  enjoyment  of  it  rely  in  a  large  meas- 
ure on  the  "  explanation."  The  Symphonia  Do- 
mestica  and  Heldenleben  are  extreme  examples  of 
this  sort  of  thing.  What  does  Wagner's  whole 
system  depend  on  but  "  explanation  "  ?  How  does, 
one  know  that  a  certain  sequence  of  notes  repre- 
sents a  sword?  Because  the  composer  tells  us  so. 
How  does  one  discover  that  another  sequence  of 
notes  represents  Alberich's  curse?  Through  the 
same  channel.  Bernard  Shaw  says  in  The  Perfect 
Wagnerite:  "  To  be  able  to  follow  the  music  of 
The  Ring,  all  that  is  necessary  is  to  become  famil- 
iar enough  with  the  brief  musical  phrases  out  of 
which  it  is  built  to  recognize  them  and  attach  a 
certain  definite  significance  to  them,  exactly  as  any 
[174] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

ordinary  Englishman  recognizes  and  attaches  a 
definite  significance  to  the  opening  bars  of  God 
Save  the  Queen."  Modern  music  is  full  of  this  sort 
of  thing.  It  leans  more  and  more  heavily  on  titles, 
on  mimed  drama,  on  "  explanation."  Think  of 
almost  all  the  music  of  Debussy,  for  example,  La 
Mer,  VAprds-midi  d'un  Faune,  Iberia,  nearly  all 
the  piano  music;  Rimsky-Korsakow's  Schehera- 
zade, Antar,  and  Sadko  (the  symphonic  suite,  not 
the  opera)  ;  Vincent  d'Indy's  Istar;  Borodine's 
Thamar;  Dukas's  VApprenti  Sorcier;  Franck's  Le 
Chasseur  M audit  and  Les  Eolides;  Saint-Saens's 
Phaeton,  La  Jeunesse  d'Hercule,  and  Le  Rouet 
d'Omphale;  Busoni's  music  for  Turandot:  the  list 
is  endless  and  it  is  futile  to  continue  it. 

But,  Mr.  Aldrich  would  object,  in  most  of  these 
instances  the  music  stands  by  itself  and  it  is  pos- 
sible to  enjoy  it  without  reference  to  the  titles.  I 
contend  that  this  is  just  as  true  of  Strawinsky's 
three  pieces  for  string  quartet  (of  course  one  never 
will  be  sure  because  Daniel  Gregory  Mason  ex- 
plained these  pieces  before  they  were  played). 
However  Mr.  Newman  has  already  exploded  a  good 
many  bombs  about  this  particular  point  and  he  has 
shown  the  fallacy  of  the  theory.  Mr.  Newman 
concedes  that  a  work  such  as  Tschaikowsky's  over- 
ture Romeo  and  Juliet,  would  undoubtedly  "  give 
[175] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

intense  pleasure  to  any  one  who  listened  to  it  as  a 
piece  of  music,  pure  and  simple.  But  I  deny,"  he 
continues,  "  that  this  hearer  would  receive  as  much 
pleasure  from  the  work  as  I  do.  He  might  think 
the  passage  for  muted  strings,  for  example,  ex- 
tremely beautiful,  but  he  would  not  get  from  it 
such  delight  as  I,  who  not  only  feel  all  the  musical 
loveliness  of  the  melody  and  the  harmonies  and  the 
tone  colour,  but  see  the  lovers  on  the  balcony  and 
breathe  the  very  atmosphere  of  Shakespeare's 
scene.  I  am  richer  than  my  fellow  by  two  or  three 
emotions  of  this  kind.  My  nature  is  stirred  on  twd 
or  three  sides  instead  of  only  one.  I  would  go  fur- 
ther and  say  that  not  only  does  the  auditor  I  have 
supposed  get  less  pleasure  from  the  work  than  I, 
but  he  really  does  not  hear  Tschaikowsky's  work 
at  all.  If  the  musician  writes  music  to  a  play  and 
invents  phrases  to  symbolize  the  characters  and  to 
picture  the  events  of  the  play,  we  are  simply  not 
listening  to  his  work  at  all  if  we  listen  to  it  in  igno- 
rance of  his  poetical  scheme.  We  may  hear  the 
music  but  it  is  not  the  music  he  meant  us  to  hear." 
And  Mr.  Newman  goes  on  to  berate  Strauss  for 
not  providing  programmes  for  some  of  his  tone- 
poems  (programmes,  however,  which  have  always 
been  provided  by  somebody  in  authority  at  the 
eleventh  hour).  Niecks  thinks  that  nearly  all 
[176] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

music  has  an  implied  programme :  "  My  opinion 
is  that  whenever  the  composer  ceases  to  write 
purely  formal  music  he  passes  from  the  domain 
of  absolute  music  into  that  of  programme  music." 
("  Programme  Music  in  the  Last  Four  Centu- 
ries.") But  Niecks  does  not  hold  that  explana- 
tion is  always  necessary,  even  if  there  is  a  pro- 
gramme. 

Under  the  circumstances  it  seems  a  bit  thick  to 
jump  on  Strawinsky  for  writing  music  which  has 
to  be  explained.  Such  pieces  as  Fireworks  or  the 
Scherzo  Fantastique  need  no  more  extended  ex- 
planation than  the  titles  give  them.  His  three 
pieces  for  string  quartet  were  listed  without  pro- 
gramme at  the  Flonzaley  concert  and  might  have 
been  played  that  way,  I  think,  without  causing  the 
heavens  to  fall.  But  Strawinsky  had  told  some 
one  that  their  general  title  was  Grotesques  and 
that  he  had  composed  each  of  them  with  a  pro- 
gramme in  mind,  which  was  divulged.  When  the 
music  was  played,  in  the  circumstances,  what  he 
was  driving  at  was  as  plain  as  A.  B.  C.  There 
was  no  further  demand  made  on  the  auditor  than 
that  he  prepare  himself,  as  Schumann  asked  audi- 
tors to  prepare  themselves  to  listen  to  the  Carne- 
val,  by  thinking  of  the  titles.  In  Strawinsky's 
opera,  The  Nightingale,  the  text  of  the  opera 
[177] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

serves  as  the  programme.  There  are  no  repre- 
sentative themes ;  there  is  no  "  working-out." 
You  are  not  required  to  remember  leit-motive  in 
order  to  familiarize  your  emotions  with  the  proper 
capers  to  cut  at  particular  moments  when  these 
motive  are  repeated.  You  are  asked  simply  to 
follow  the  course  of  the  lyric  drama  with  open  ears, 
open  mind,  and  open  heart.  Albert  Gleizes,  the 
post-impressionist  painter,  once  told  me  that  he 
considered  the  title  an  essential  part  of  a  picture. 
"  It  is  a  pointe  de  depart,"  he  said.  "  In  painting 
a  picture  I  always  have  some  idea  or  object  in 
mind  in  the  beginning.  In  my  completed  picture 
I  may  have  wandered  far  away  from  this.  Now 
the  title  gives  the  spectator  the  advantage  of  start- 
ing where  I  started."  A  title  to  a  musical  com- 
position gives  an  auditor  a  similar  advantage.  No 
doubt  Strawinsky's  Fireworks  would  make  a  nice 
blaze  without  the  name  but  the  title  gives  us  a  pic- 
ture to  begin  with,  just  as  Wagner  gives  us  scenery 
and  text  and  action  (to  say  nothing  of  a  hand- 
book of  representative  themes)  to  explain  the 
music  of  Die  Walkiire.  .  .  . 

An  important  point  has  been  overlooked  by  those 
who  have  watched  painting  and  music  develop  dur- 
ing the  past  century:  while  painting  has  become 
less  and  less  an  attempt  to  represent  nature,  music 
[178] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

has  more  and  more  attempted  concrete  representa- 
tion. There  has  seemed,  at  times,  to  be  an  inter- 
change in  progress  in  the  values  of  the  arts. 
("  He  [Cezanne]  is  the  first  of  the  great  painters 
to  treat  colour  deliberately  as  music ;  he  tests  all 
its  harmonic  resources,"  Remain  Holland. )  Ob- 
servers of  matters  aesthetic  have  frequently  told  us 
that  both  of  these  arts  were  breaking  with  their 
old  principles  and  going  on  to  something  new  but, 
it  would  seem,  they  have  failed  to  grasp  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  change.  Music,  as  it  drops  its 
classic  outline  and  form,  the  cliche  of  the  studio 
and  the  academy,  becomes  more  and  more  like 
nature,  because  natural  sounds  are  not  co-ordinated 
into  symphonies  with  working-out  sections  and 
codas,  first  and  second  subjects,  etc.,  while  in 
painting,  in  some  of  its  later  manifestations,  the  re- 
semblance to  things  seen  has  entirely  disappeared. 
This  fact,  at  least  one  phase  of  it,  was  realized  in 
concrete  form  by  the  futurists  in  Italy  who  as- 
serted that  polyphony,  fugue,  etc.,  were  contrap- 
tions of  a  bygone  age  when  the  stage-coach  was  in 
vogue.  Machinery  has  changed  the  world.  We 
are  living  in  a  dynasty  of  dynamics.  A  certain 
number  of  futurists  even  give  concerts  of  noise 
machines  in  which  a  definite  attempt  is  made  to 
imitate  the  sounds  of  automobiles,  aeroplanes,  etc. 
[179] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

At  a  concert  given  at  the  Dal  Verme  in  Milan,  for 
example,  the  pieces  were  called  The  Awakening  of 
a  Great  City,  A  Dinner  on  the  Kursaal  Terrace 
(doubtless  with  an  imitation  of  the  guests  eating 
soup),  and  A  Meet  of  Automobiles  and  Aeroplanes. 
Picasso  and  Picabia  have  made  us  acquainted 
with  a  form  of  art  which  in  its  vague  realization  of 
representative  values  becomes  almost  as  abstract 
an  art  as  music  was  in  the  time  of  Beethoven,  while 
such  musicians  as  Strauss,  Debussy,  and  Straw- 
insky,  have  gradually  widened  the  boundaries 
which  have  confined  music,  and  have  made  it  at 
times  something  very  concrete.  Debussy's  La 
Mer,  for  example,  is  a  much  more  definite  picture 
(in  leaning  over  the  rail  of  the  gallery  of  the 
Salle  Gaveau  in  Paris  during  a  performance  of 
this  piece  I  actually  became  sea-sick !)  than  Marcel 
Duchamp's  painting  of  the  Nu  Descendant  VE sca- 
lier. So  Strawinsky's  three  pieces  for  string 
quartet  represent  certain  things  in  nature  (the 
first  a  group  of  peasants  playing  strange  instru- 
ments on  the  steppes ;  the  second  sounds  in  a  Cathe- 
dral heard  by  a  drowsy  worshipper,  the  responses 
of  the  priest,  chanted  out  of  key,  the  shrill  antiph- 
onal  choruses;  and  the  third  a  juggling  Pierrot 
with  a  soul-pain)  much  more  definitely  than  Picas- 
so's latest  Nature  Morte  dans  un  Jardin. 
[180] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

"  Now  the  law  which  has  dominated  painting  for 
more  than  a  century  is  a  more  and  more  compre- 
hensive assimilation  of  musical  idiom.  Even  Dela- 
croix spoke  of  '  the  mysterious  effects  of  line  and 
colour  which,  alas,  only  a  few  adepts  feel  —  like 
interwoven  themes  in  music  .  .  .'  and  Baudelaire, 
in  another  connection,  wrote,  *  Harmony,  melody, 
and  counterpoint  are  to  be  found  in  colour.  Ingres 
also  remarked  to  his  disciples,  6  If  I  could  make 
you  all  musicians  you  would  be  better  painters.' 
Renoir,  who  journeyed  to  Sicily  to  paint  Wagner's 
portrait  and  to  translate  Tamihauser,  is  a  musical 
enthusiast  and  his  work  is  music.  Maurice  Denis 
tells  us  that  his  pals  at  Julian's  Academy,  those 
who  were  to  found  synthesism  with  him,  never 
tired  of  discussing  Lamoureux's  concerts,  where 
they  were  enthusiastic  habitues.  Gaugin  an- 
nounced that  *  painting  is  a  musical  phase.'  He 
speaks  continually  of  the  music  of  a  picture ;  when 
he  wants  to  analyze  his  work  he  divides  it  into  the 
literary  element,  to  which  he  attaches  less  impor- 
tance, and  the  musical  element  which  he  schemes 
first.  Cezanne,  whom  Gaugin  compared  to  Cesar 
Franck,  said,  *  not  model,  but  modulate.'  Metz- 
inger  invokes  the  right  of  cubist  painters  to  ex- 
press all  emotions  as  music  does,  and  one  of  the 
aestheticians  of  the  new  school  writes :  '  The  goal 
[181] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

of  painting  is  perhaps  a  music  of  nature,  visual 
music  to  which  traditional  painting  would  have 
somewhat  the  status  that  sacred  or  dramatic  music 
has  compared  to  concert  music.' 

"  This,  then,  is  the  revolution  in  the  art  of  line 
and  colour  which  has  become  aware  of  its  intrinsic 
power,  independent  of  any  subject.  In  truth, 
even  among  the  Venetians,  as  has  been  well  said, 
the  subject  was  '  only  the  background  upon  which 
the  painter  relied  to  develop  his  harmonies,'  but 
the  mentality  of  spectators  clings  to  this  back- 
ground as  to  the  libretto  of  an  opera.  At  present, 
an  end  to  librettos:  Pure  music:  those  who  wish 
to  comprehend  it  must  first  of  all  master  its  idiom, 
for  '  Colour  is  learned  as  music  is.' '  (Remain 
Holland:  "The  Unbroken  Chain,"  Lee  Simon- 
son's  translation.) 

So  far,  in  spite  of  the  protestations  of  horror 
made  by  the  academicians,  the  pedants,  and  the 
Philistines,  which  would  lead  one  to  suppose  a  state 
of  complete  chaos,  there  has  not  been  a  complete 
abandonment  of  co-ordination,  of  selection,  or  of 
intention,  in  either  art.  In  fact,  it  seems  to  me, 
that  the  qualities  of  intention  and  selection  are 
more  powerful  adjuncts  of  the  artist  than  they 
have  been  for  many  generations.  In  painting 
colour  and  form  are  cunningly  contrived  to  give 
[182] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

us  an  idea,  if  not  a  photograph,  and  in  music  nat- 
ural (as  well  as  unnatural)  sounds  are  still  ar- 
ranged, perhaps  to  a  more  extreme  extent  than 
ever  before. 

II 

I  wonder  if  all  the  suggestion  music  gives  us  is 
associative.  Sometimes  I  think  so.  Was  it  Ber- 
lioz who  remarked  that  the  slightest  quickening  of 
tempo  would  transform  the  celebrated  air  in  Orphee 
from  "  J'ai  perdu  mon  Euridice  "  to  "  J'ai  trouve 
mon  Euridice "?  Rossini  found  an  overture 
which  he  had  formerly  used  for  a  tragedy  quite 
suitable  for  II  Barbiere  di  Siviglia,  and  the  inter- 
changeable values  which  Handel  gave  to  secular 
and  sacred  tunes  are  familiar  to  all  music  students. 
Are  minor  keys  really  sad?  Are  major  keys  al- 
ways suggestive  of  j  oy  ?  We  know  that  this  is  not 
true  although  one  will  be  more  sure  of  a  ready  re- 
sponse of  tears  from  a  Western  audience  by  re- 
sorting to  a  minor  key.  In  our  music  wedding 
marches  are  usually  in  the  major  and  funeral 
marches  usually  in  the  minor  modes.  But  almost 
all  Eastern  music  is  in  a  minor  key,  love  songs  and 
even  cradle  songs.  Recall,  or  play  over  on  your 
piano,  the  Smyrnan  lullaby  (made  familiar  by 
Mme.  Sembrich)  which  occurs  in  the  collection  of 
[183] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

Grecian  and  oriental  melodies  edited  by  L.  A. 
Bourgault-Ducoudray.  .  .  .  Even  the  composers 
who  do  not  call  their  pieces  by  name  and  who 
scorn  the  use  of  a  programme,  depend  for  some  of 
their  most  powerful  effects  on  emotion  created  by 
association  .  .  .  and  a  new  composer,  be  he  inde- 
fatigable enough,  can  rouse  new  associations  in 
us.  ...  Why  if  three  or  four  composers  would 
meet  together  and  decide  that  the  use  of  a  certain 
group  of  notes  stood  for  the  town  pump,  in  time  it 
would  be  quite  easy  for  other  composers  to  use  this 
phrase  in  that  connection  with  no  explanation 
whatever. 

Ill 

"  It  is  a  mistake  of  much  popular  criticism," 
says  Walter  Pater,  in  the  first  two  sentences  of 
his  essay  on  "  The  School  of  Giorgione,"  "  to  re- 
gard poetry,  music,  and  painting  —  all  the  various 
products  of  art  —  as  but  translations  into  differ- 
ent languages  of  one  and  the  same  fixed  quantity 
of  imaginative  thought,  supplemented  by  certain 
technical  qualities  of  colour,  in  painting ;  of  sound, 
in  music ;  of  rhythmical  words,  in  poetry.  In  this 
way,  the  sensuous  element  in  art,  and  with  it  al- 
most everything  in  art  that  is  essentially  artistic, 
is  made  a  matter  of  indifference;  and  a  clear  ap- 
[184] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

prehension  of  the  opposite  principle  —  that  the 
sensuous  material  of  each  art  brings  with  it  a 
special  phase  or  quality  of  beauty,  untranslatable 
into  the  forms  of  any  other,  an  order  of  impres- 
sions distinct  in  kind  —  is  the  beginning  of  all  true 
aesthetic  criticism." 

Strawinsky,  in  a  sense,  is  quite  done  with  pro- 
gramme music;  at  least  he  says  that  this  is  so. 
"  La  musique  est  trop  bete  pour  exprimer  autre 
chose  que  la  musique "  is  his  pregnant  phrase, 
which  I  cannot  quote  often  enough.  And  in  an 
interview  with  Stanley  Wise,  which  appeared  in 
the  columns  of  the  «  New  York  Tribune  "  he  fur- 
ther says,  "  Programme  music  .  .  .  has  been  ob- 
viously discontinued  as  being  distinctly  an 
uncouth  form  which  already  has  had  its  day ; 
but  music,  nevertheless,  still  drags  out  its  life  in 
accordance  with  these  false  notions  and  concep- 
tions. Without  absolutely  defying  the  pro- 
gramme, musicians  still  draw  upon  sources  foreign 
to  their  art.  .  .  .  The  true  inwardness  of  music 
being  purely  acoustic,  the  art  so  expresses  itself 
without  being  concerned  with  feelings  alien  to  its 
nature.  .  .  .  Music  in  the  theatre  is  still  held  in 
bondage  to  other  elements.  Wagner,  in  particu- 
lar, is  responsible  for  this  servitude  in  which  music 
labours  to-day." 

[185] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

The  greater  part  of  Igor  Strawinsky's  music, 
up  to  date,  is  written  to  a  programme,  but  these 
remarks  of  the  composer  should  not  be  incompre- 
hensible on  that  account.  Somewhat  later  than 
the  performance  of  the  three  pieces  for  string 
quartet,  The  Firebird  and  Petrouchka  were  per- 
formed in  New  York  and  were  hailed  by  the  critics, 
en  masse,  as  most  delightful  works.  But  the  music 
depends  for  its  success,  they  said,  on  the  stage 
action  to  explain  it.  I  fancy  this  is  true  of  many 
operas  which  were  written  for  the  stage.  Sieg- 
fried, as  a  whole,  would  be  pretty  tiresome  in  con- 
cert form  and  so  would  La  Fille  du  Regiment. 
And  read  what  Henry  Fothergill  Chorley  has  to 
say  about  the  works  of  Gluck  ("  Modern  German 
Music  ")  :  "  The  most  experienced  and  imagina- 
tive of  readers  will  derive  from  the  closest  perusal 
of  the  scores  of  Gluck's  operas,  feeble  and  distant 
impressions  of  their  power  and  beauty.  The  de- 
licious charm  of  Mozart's  melody  —  the  expressive 
nobility  of  Handel's  ideas  —  may  in  some  measure 
be  comprehended  by  the  student  at  the  pianoforte 
and  the  eye  may  assure  the  reader  how  masterly 
is  the  symmetry  of  the  vocal  score  with  one, —  how 
rich  and  complete  is  the  management  of  the  in- 
strumental score,  with  the  other  master.  But  this 
is  in  no  respect  the  case  with  Alceste,  the  two 
[186] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

Iphigenies  and  Armide  —  it  may  be  added,  with 
almost  any  opera  written  according  to  the  canons 
of  French  taste.  That  which  appears  thin,  bald, 
severe,  when  it  is  merely  perused,  is  filled  up, 
brightens,  enchants,  excites,  and  satisfies,  when  it 
is  heard  with  action, —  to  a  degree  only  to  be  be- 
lieved upon  experience.  Out  of  the  theatre,  three- 
fourths  of  Gluck's  individual  merit  is  lost.  He 
wrote  for  the  stage."  That  all  this  is  true  any 
one  who,  like  me,  has  taken  the  trouble  to  study 
the  scores  of  the  Gluck  operas,  which  are  infre- 
quently performed,  may  have  discovered  for  him- 
self. I  have  never  heard  Alceste  and  that  lyric 
drama,  as  a  result,  has  never  sprung  to  me  from 
the  printed  page  as  do  the  notes  of  Orphee,  Ar- 
mide, and  Iphigenie  en  Tauride.  I  am  convinced 
of  the  depth  of  expression  contained  in  its  pages ; 
I  am  certain  of  its  noble  power,  but  only  because 
I  have  had  a  similar  experience  with  other  Gluck 
music  dramas,  with  which  I  have  later  become  ac- 
quainted in  the  theatre. 

This  theory  in  regard  to  Petrouchka  and  The 
Firebird  may  be  easily  contradicted,  however. 
One  listener  told  me  that  she  got  the  complete  pic- 
ture of  the  Russian  fair  by  closing  her  eyes ;  it  was 
all  in  the  music.  The  action,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
she  added,  annoyed  her.  It  is  quite  certain  that 
[187] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

the  music  of  either  of  these  works  is  delightful 
when  played  on  the  piano ;  an  average  roomful  of 
people  who  like  to  listen  to  music  will  be  charmed 
with  it.  The  Sacrifice  to  the  Spring  was  hissed  in- 
tolerantly when  it  was  performed  as  a  ballet  in 
Paris  but,  later  (April  5,  1914),  when  Pierre 
Monteux  gave  an  orchestral  performance  of  the 
work  at  a  concert  it  was  applauded  as  violently. 

Strawinsky  has,  it  is  true,  worked  away  from 
representation  (in  the  sense  of  copying  nature  or, 
like  Wagner,  relying  on  literary  formulas  for  his 
effects)  in  his  music,  but  he  has  written  very  little 
that  does  not  depend  on  a  programme,  either  ex- 
pressed or  implied.  All  songs  of  course  are  "  ex- 
plained "  by  their  lyrics.  The  Scherzo  Fantas- 
tique  and  Fireworks  are  programme  music  in  the 
lighter  sense,  and  naturally  the  music  of  his  bal- 
lets and  his  opera  depends  for  its  meaning  on  the 
stage  action.  What  Strawinsky  means  to  do,  I 
think  —  certainly  what  he  has  done  —  is  to  avoid 
going  outside  his  subject  or  requiring  his  listener 
to  do  so.  To  understand  the  music  of  his  opera 
you  need  never  have  heard  a  real  nightingale  sing, 
for  the  bird  does  not  sing  at  all  like  a  nightingale, 
a  fact  which  was  not  understood  by  the  critics 
when  the  work  was  first  produced,  and  in  The 
Sacrifice  to  the  Spring  you  will  find  no  attempt 
[188] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

made  to  ape  natural  sounds,  although  there  was 
ample  opportunity  for  doing  so.  ...  Another 
modern  worker  in  tone,  Leo  Ornstein,  in  the  ac- 
companiment to  his  cradle  song  (it  is  the  same 
wiegenlied  set  by  Richard  Strauss,  by  the  way) 
tries  to  give  his  hearers  the  mother's  overtones, 
her  thoughts  about  the  child's  future,  etc.;  the 
music,  instead  of  attempting  to  express  the  exact 
meaning  of  the  poem,  expresses  more  than  the 
poem. 

And  Mr.  Ornstein  once  said  to  me,  "  What  I 
try  to  do  in  composing  is  to  get  underneath,  to  ex- 
press the  feeling  underneath  —  not  to  be  photo- 
graphic. I  do  not  think  it  is  art  to  reproduce  a 
steam  whistle  but  it  is  art  to  give  the  feeling  that 
the  steam  whistle  gives  us.  That  can  never  be 
done  by  exact  reproduction.  ...  I  should  not 
like  a  steam  whistle  introduced  into  the  concert 
room  "  (I  had  shamelessly  suggested  it)  "... 
but  great,  smashing  chords.  .  .  ." 

Yet  Mr.  Ornstein  in  his  Impressions  of  the 
Thames  is  as  near  actual  representation  as  Whis- 
tler or  Monet  .  .  .  certainly  a  musical  impres- 
sionist. 

Is  anything  true?  I  hope  not.  At  dinner  the 
other  evening  a  lady  attempted  to  prove  to  me  that 
there  were  standards  by  which  beauty  could  be 
[189] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

judged  and  rules  by  which  it  could  be  constructed. 
She  was  unsuccessful. 


IV 

It  has  occurred  to  me  that  Mr.  Aldrich  meant 
that  he  wanted  the  juxtaposition  of  notes  ex- 
plained from  beginning  to  end.  Inspiration  is  not 
always  conscious  .  .  .  one  feels  in  the  end  whether 
such  a  collocation  is  inevitable  or  not  ...  I  won- 
der if  Beethoven  could  have  explained  one  of  his 
last  quartets  or  piano  sonatas.  I  doubt  it.  Of 
course,  on  the  other  hand,  Wagner  explained  and 
explained  and  explained. 


I  am  afraid  that  this  quality  alone,  the  fact 
that  the  music  needs  explanation,  is  not  the 
rock  on  which  Mr.  Aldrich  splits,  so  to  speak. 
He  writes  somewhere  else  in  this  same  article: 
"  All  he  asks  of  his  listeners  is  to  forget  all  they 
know  about  string  quartet  music."  Now  this  is 
really  too  much.  That  is  exactly  what  Straw- 
insky  does,  and  why  shouldn't  he?  Has  not  every 
great  composer  done  as  much?  To  quote  Ernest 
Newman  again  (this  time  from  his  book  "  Richard 
[190] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

Strauss"),  "All  the  music  of  the  giants  of  the 
past  expresses  no  more  than  a  fragment  of  what 
music  can  and  some  day  will  express.  With  each 
new  generation  it  must  discover  and  reveal  some 
new  secret  of  the  universe  and  of  man's  heart ;  and 
as  the  thing  uttered  varies,  the  way  of  uttering  it 
must  vary  also.  There  is  only  one  rational  defi- 
nition of  good  '  form  '  in  music  —  that  which  ex- 
presses most  succinctly  and  most  perfectly  the 
state  of  soul  in  which  the  idea  originated;  and  as 
moods  and  ideas  change,  so  must  forms."  "  The 
true  creator  strives,  in  reality,  after  perfection 
only,"  writes  Busoni,  in  "  A  New  ^Esthetic  of 
Music,"  "  and  through  bringing  this  into  harmony 
with  his  own  individuality,  a  new  law  arises  with- 
out premeditation."  The  very  greatness  of  Bee- 
thoven is  due  to  the  fact  that  he  made  a  perfect 
wedding  of  form  and  idea.  His  forms  (in  which 
he  broke  with  tradition  in  several  important 
points)  were  evolved  out  of  his  ideas.  Now  the 
very  writers  who  give  Beethoven  the  credit  for  hav- 
ing accomplished  this  successful  revolution  and 
who  write  enthusiastically  of  Gluck's  "  reform  of 
the  opera,"  object  to  any  contemporary  instances 
of  this  spirit  (Maurice  Ravel  "  corrects "  with 
great  care,  I  am  told,  the  exercises  of  his  pupils. 
"  He  who  breaks  rules  must  first  know  them,"  he 
[191] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

says.  And  I  have  no  disposition  to  quarrel  with 
this  sort  of  reverence  although  I  think  it  is  some- 
times carried  too  far.  However  the  critic  at- 
tempts to  "  correct "  the  finished  pupil's  work, 
from  the  work  of  the  past  —  a  sad  and  impossible 
task).  Why  in  the  name  of  goodness  should  not 
Strawinsky,  or  any  other  modern  composer,  for 
that  matter,  be  allowed  to  make  us  forget  every- 
thing we  know  about  string  quartets,  if  he  is  able? 
Some  of  us  would  be  grateful  for  the  sensation. 
Leo  Ornstein  in  a  recent  article  said,  "  The  very 
first  step  which  the  composer  must  be  given  the 
privilege  of  insisting  upon  is  that  his  listeners 
should  approach  his  work  with  no  preconceived 
notions  of  any  kind ;  they  must  learn  to  allow  abso- 
lute and  full  freedom  to  their  imaginations  as  it  is 
only  under  such  circumstances  that  any  new  work 
can  be  understood  and  appreciated  at  first.  All 
preconceived  theories  must  be  abolished,  and  the 
new  work  approached  through  no  formulas." 
And  in  the  same  article  Mr.  Ornstein  relates  how, 
after  he  had  played  his  Wild  Men's  Dance  to 
Leschetizky  that  worthy  pedagogue  murmured, 
amazed,  "  How  in  the  world  did  you  get  all  those 
notes  on  paper!"  That,  unfortunately,  con- 
cludes Mr.  Ornstein,  is  the  attitude  of  the  average 
listener  to  modern  music.  A  similar  instance  is 
[192] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

related  in  the  case  of  Strawinsky.  He  played 
some  measures  of  his  ballet,  The  Firebird,  on  the 
piano  to  his  master,  Rimsky-Korsakow,  until  the 
composer  of  Scheherazade  interposed,  "  Stop 
playing  that  horrid  thing ;  otherwise  I  might  begin 
to  enjoy  it."  And  even  the  usually  open-minded 
James  Huneker  says  in  his  essay  on  Arnold 
Schoenberg  ("  Ivory,  Apes,  and  Peacocks  "),  "  If 
such  music-making  is  ever  to  become  accepted, 
then  I  long  for  Death  the  Releaser.  More  shock- 
ing still  would  be  the  suspicion  that  in  time  I  might 
be  persuaded  to  like  this  music,  to  embrace,  after 
abhorring  it."  These  phrases  of  Huneker's  re- 
mind me  of  a  personal  incident.  My  father  has 
subscribed  for  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly  "  since  the 
first  issue  and  one  of  the  earliest  memories  of  my 
childhood  is  connected  with  the  inevitable  copy 
which  always  lay  on  the  library  table.  On  one 
occasion,  contemplating  it,  I  burst  into  tears ;  nor 
could  I  be  comforted.  My  explanation,  between 
sobs,  was,  "  Some  day  I'll  grow  up  and  like  a  maga- 
zine without  pictures!  I  can't  bear  to  think  of 
it ! "  Well,  there  is  many  a  man  who  weeps  be- 
cause some  day  he  may  grow  up  to  like  music  with- 
out melody!  Music  has  changed;  of  that  there 
can  be  no  doubt.  Don't  go  to  a  concert  and  ex- 
pect to  hear  what  you  might  have  heard  fifty  years 
[193] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

ago ;  don't  expect  anything  and  don't  hate  your- 
self if  you  happen  to  like  what  you  hear.  Mr. 
George  Moore's  evidence  on  this  point  of  receptive- 
ness  is  enlightening  (Mr.  George  Moore  who  spoke 
to  me  once  of  the  "  vulgar  noises  made  by  the  Rus- 
sian Ballet  ")  :  "  In  Petrouchka  the  orchestra  all 
began  playing  in  different  keys  and  when  it  came 
out  into  one  key  I  was  quite  dazed.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  is  music  but  I  rather  liked  it ! " 

Still  another  point  is  raised  by  Mr.  Aldrich. 
I  quote  from  the  "  New  York  Times  "  of  Decem- 
ber 8,  1915;  the  reference  is  to  the  second  string 
quartet  of  David  Stanley  Smith,  played  by  the 
Kneisel  Quartet  (the  italics  are  mine) :  "  Mr. 
Smith  does  not  hesitate  at  drastic  dissonance  when 
it  results  from  the  leading  of  his  part  writing." 
There  at  last  we  have  the  real  nigger  in  the  wood- 
pile. The  relation  between  keys  is  so  remote,  the 
tonalities  are  so  inexplicable  in  a  modern  Straw- 
insky  or  Schoenberg  work  that  the  brain,  pre- 
pared with  a  list  of  scales,  refuses  to  take  in  the 
natural  impression  that  the  ear  receives.  This  sort 
of  criticism  reminds  me  of  a  line  which  is  quoted 
from  some  London  journal  by  William  Wal- 
lace in  "  The  Threshold  of  Music,"  "  The  whole 
work  is  singularly  lacking  in  contrapuntal  interest 
and  depends  solely  for  such  effect  as  it  achieves 
[194] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

upon  certain  emotional  impressions  of  harmony 
and  colour."  And,  nearer  home,  I  culled  the  fol- 
lowing from  the  "  New  York  Sun  "  of  December 
12,  1915  (Mr.  W.  J.  Henderson's  column),  "  This 
is  what  is  the  matter  with  the  futurists  or  post-im- 
pressionists in  music.  They  are  tone  colourists 
and  that  is  all."  (Amusingly  enough  Mr.  Hen- 
derson begins  his  remarks  by  praising  Joseph 
Pennell  for  writing  an  article  in  which  the  post- 
impressionist  painters  were  given  a  drubbing;  this 
article  is  treated  with  contumely  and  scorn  by  the 
art  critic  of  the  "  Sun  "  on  the  page  opposite  that 
on  which  Mr.  Henderson's  article  appears.)  In 
all  these  cases  you  find  men  complaining  because 
a  composer  has  done  exactly  what  he  started  out 
to  do.  F.  Balilla  Pratella  in  one  of  his  futurist 
manifestos  discusses  this  point  (the  translation  is 
my  own),  "  The  fugue,  a  composition  based  on 
counterpoint  par  excellence,  is  full  of  (such)  arti- 
fices even  when  it  achieves  its  artistic  balance  in 
the  works  of  the  great  German  Sebastian  Bach. 
Soul,  intellectuality,  and  instinct  are  here  fused  in 
a  given  form,  in  a  given  manifestation  of  art,  an 
art  of  its  own  times,  historical  and  strictly  con- 
nected with  the  life,  faith,  and  culture  of  that  par- 
ticular period.  Why  then  should  we  be  compelled 
or  asked  to  live  it  over  again  at  the  distance  of 
[195] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

several  centuries  ?  "  And  later,  "  We  proclaim  as 
an  essential  principle  of  our  futurist  revolution 
that  counterpoint  and  fugue,  stupidly  considered 
as  one  of  the  most  important  branches  of  musical 
learning,  are  in  our  eyes  only  the  ruins  of  the 
old  science  of  polyphony  which  extends  from  the 
Flemish  school  to  Bach.  We  replace  them  by 
harmonic  polyphony,  logical  fusion  of  counter- 
point and  harmony,  which  allows  musicians  to  es- 
cape the  needless  difficulty  of  dividing  their  efforts 
in  two  opposing  cultures,  one  dead  and  the  other 
contemporary,  and  entirely  irreconcilable,  because 
they  are  the  fruits  of  two  different  sensibilities." 
To  quote  Busoni ;  again :  "  How  important,  indeed, 
are  'Third,'  <  Fifth,'  and  'Octave'!  How 
strictly  we  divide  *  consonances '  from  *  disso- 
nances ' —  in  a  sphere  where  no  dissonances  can 
possibly  exist!  "  When  Bernard  Shaw  published 
"  The  Perfect  Wagnerite  "  he  wrote  for  a  public 
which  still  considered  Wagner  a  little  in  advance 
of  the  contemporary  in  music.  What  did  he  say? 
"  My  second  encouragement  is  addressed  to  modest 
citizens  who  may  suppose  themselves  to  be  dis- 
qualified from  enjoying  The  Ring  by  their  techni- 
cal ignorance  of  music.  They  may  dismiss  all 
such  misgivings  speedily  and  confidently.  If  the 
sound  of  music  has  any  power  to  move  them  they 
[196] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

will  find  that  Wagner  exacts  nothing  further. 
There  is  not  a  single  bar  of  '  classical  music '  in 
The  Rmg  —  not  a  note  in  it  that  has  any  other 
point  than  the  single  direct  point  of  giving  musi- 
cal expression  to  the  drama.  In  classical  music 
there  are,  as  the  analytical  programmes  tell  us, 
first  subjects  and  second  subjects,  free  fantasias, 
recapitulations,  and  codas;  there  are  fugues,  with 
counter-subjects,  strettos,  and  pedal  points;  there 
are  passacaglias  on  ground  basses,  canons  and 
hypodiapente,  and  other  ingenuities,  which  have, 
after  all,  stood  or  fallen  by  their  prettiness  as 
much  as  the  simplest  folk-tune.  Wagner  is  never 
driving  at  anything  of  this  sort  any  more  than 
Shakespeare  in  his  plays  is  driving  at  such  ingenu- 
ities of  verse-making  as  sonnets,  triolets,  and  the 
like.  And  this  is  why  he  is  so  easy  for  the  natural 
musician  who  has  had  no  academic  teaching.  The 
professors,  when  Wagner's  music  is  played  to 
them,  exclaim  at  once,  '  What  is  this  ?  Is  it  aria, 
or  recitative  ?  Is  there  no  cabeletta  to  it  —  not 
even  a  full  close?  Why  was  that  discord  not 
prepared;  and  why  does  he  not  resolve  it  cor- 
rectly? How  dare  he  indulge  in  those  scandalous 
and  illicit  transitions  into  a  key  that  has  not  one 
note  in  common  with  the  key  he  has  just  left? 
Listen  to  those  false  relations.  What  does  he 
[197] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

want  with  six  drums  and  eight  horns  when  Mozart 
worked  miracles  with  two  of  each?  The  man  is 
no  musician.'  The  layman  neither  knows  nor 
cares  about  any  of  these  things.  It  is  the  adept 
musician  of  the  old  school  who  has  everything  to 
unlearn;  and  I  leave  him,  unpitied,  to  his  fate." 
All  Wagner  asked  his  contemporaries  to  do,  in 
fact,  was  to  forget  all  they  knew  about  opera ! 


VI 

This  piling  up  of  Shaw  on  Huneker,  these  dips 
into  Newman  and  Niecks,  are  beginning  to  be  for- 
midable, but  one  never  knows  what  turn  of  the 
road  may  lead  the  traveller  to  his  promised  land 
and  it  is  better  to  draw  the  map  clearly  even  if 
there  be  a  confusion  of  choices.  And  so,  just 
here,  I  beg  leave  to  make  a  tiny  digression,  to 
point  out  that  the  new  music  is  not  so  terrible  as 
all  this  explanation  may  have  made  it  seem  to  be. 
Granville  Bantock  talks  learnedly  of  "  horizontal 
counterpoint "  but  his  music  is  perfectly  compre- 
hensible. Schoenberg  writes  of  "  passing  notes," 
says  there  is  no  such  thing  as  consonance  and  dis- 
sonance, and  "  I  have  not  been  able  to  discover 
any  principles  of  harmony.  Sincerity,  self-ex- 
pression, is  all  that  the  artist  needs,  and  he  should 
[198] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

say  only  what  he  must  say  "  but  Mr.  Huneker 
points  out  that  he  has  founded  an  order  out  of 
his  chaos,  "  that  his  madness  is  very  methodical. 
For  one  thing  he  abuses  the  interval  of  the  fourth 
and  he  enjoys  juggling  with  the  chord  of  the 
ninth.  Vagabond  harmonies,  in  which  the  remot- 
est keys  lovingly  hold  hands  do  not  prevent  the 
sensation  of  a  central  tonality  somewhere  —  in 
the  cellar,  on  the  roof,  in  the  gutter,  up  in  the 
sky."  Percy  Grainger  says  he  dreams  of  "  beat- 
less  "  music  without  rhythm  —  at  least  academ- 
ically speaking  —  but  he  certainly  does  not  write 
it.  F.  Balilla  Pratella  writes  pages  condemning 
dance  rhythms  and  still  more  pages  elaborating 
a  new  theory  for  marking  time  (which,  I  admit, 
is  absolutely  incomprehensible  to  me)  and  pub- 
lishes them  as  a  preface  to  his  Musica  Futurista 
(Bologna,  1912),  a  composition  for  orchestra, 
which  is  written,  in  spite  of  the  theories,  and  the 
fantastic  time  signatures,  in  the  most  engaging 
dance  rhythms.  Nor  does  his  disregard  for  fugue 
go  so  far  as  to  make  him  unfriendly  to  scale ;  the 
whole-tone  scale  prevails  in  this  work.  His  dis- 
like for  polyphony  seems  more  sincere;  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  homophonous  effect.  Leo  Ornstein 
has  admitted  to  me  that  his  "  system  "  would  be 
fully  understood  in  a  decade  or  two.  As  for 
[199] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

Strawinsky  .  .  .  how  the  public  joyfully  and  rap- 
turously takes  to  its  heart  his  dissonances,  and 
even  asks  for  more! 

VII 

Vincent  d'Indy,  reported  by  Marcel  Duchamp, 
said  recently  that  the  philosophy  of  music  is 
twenty  years  behind  that  of  the  other  arts. 


VIII 

The  fact  that  Schoenberg  has  written  a  hand- 
book of  theory,  explaining,  after  a  fashion, 
his  method  of  composition  has  misled  some 
people.  "  Schoenberg  is  a  learned  musician," 
writes  Mr.  Aldrich  ("  New  York  Times,"  Decem- 
ber 5,  1915),  "  and  his  music  is  built  up  by 
processes  derived  from  methods  handed  down  to 
the  present  by  the  learned  of  the  past,  however 
widely  the  results  may  depart  from  those  hitherto 
accepted.  .  .  .  There  results  what  he  chooses  to 
consider  '  harmony,'  the  outcome  of  a  deliberate 
system,  about  which  he  theorizes  and  lias  written 
a  book  "  (the  italics  again  are  mine).  Against 
this  train  of  reasoning  (further  on  in  the  same 
article  it  becomes  evident  that  Mr.  Aldrich  is 
annoyed  with  Strawinsky  because  he  has  not  done 
[200] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

likewise)  it  is  pleasant  to  place  the  following 
paragraph  from  Chorley's  "  Modern  German  Mu- 
sic " :  "  Mozart,  it  will  be  recollected,  totally  and 
(for  him)  seriously,  declined  to  criticize  himself 
and  confess  his  habits  of  composition.  Many 
men  have  produced  great  works  of  art  who  have 
never  cultivated  aesthetic  conversation:  nay,  more, 
who  have  shrunk  with  a  secretly  entertained  dis- 
like from  those  indefatigable  persons  whose  fancy 
it  is  '  to  peep  and  botanize '  in  every  corner  of 
faery  land.  It  cannot  be  said  that  the  analytical 
spirit  of  the  circle  of  Weimar,  when  Goethe  was 
its  master-spirit  did  any  great  things  for  Mu- 
sic." Do  not  misunderstand  Strawinsky's  silence 
(which  has  only  been  relative,  after  all).  It  is 
sometimes  as  well  to  compose  as  to  theorize. 
Some  of  the  great  composers  have  let  us  see  into 
their  workshops  (not  that  they  have  all  consist- 
ently followed  out  their  own  theories)  and  others 
have  not.  In  one  pregnant  paragraph  Strawin- 
sky  has  expressed  himself  (he  is  speaking  of  The 
Nightingale) :  "I  want  to  suggest  neither  situa- 
tions nor  emotions,  but  simply  to  manifest,  to 
express  them.  I  think  there  is  in  what  are  called 
*  impressionist '  methods  "  ("  Mr.  Strawinsky,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  a  musical  impressionist  from 
the  start":  R.  A.  again)  "a  certain  amount  of 
[201] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

hypocrisy,  or  at  least  a  tendency  towards  vague- 
ness and  ambiguity.  That  I  shun  above  all 
things,  and  that,  perhaps,  is  the  reason  why  my 
methods  differ  as  much  from  those  of  the  impres- 
sionists as  they  differ  from  academic  conventional 
methods.  Though  I  often  find  it  extremely  hard 
to  do  so,  I  always  aim  at  straightforward  expres- 
sion in  its  simplest  form.  I  have  no  use  for 
*  working-out '  in  dramatic  or  lyric  music.  The 
one  essential  thing  is  to  feel  and  to  convey  one's 
feelings." 

This  idea  of  natural  expression  becomes  asso- 
ciated in  any  great  composer's  mind  with  another 
idea,  the  horror  of  the  cliche.  Each  new  giant 
desires  to  express  himself  without  resorting  to  the 
thousand  and  one  formulas  which  have  been  more 
or  less  in  use  since  the  "  golden  age  "  of  music 
(whenever  that  was).  Natural  expression  im- 
plies to  a  certain  extent  the  abandonment  of  the 
cliche,  for,  under  this  principle,  if  a  rule  or  a 
habit  is  weighed  and  found  wanting  it  is  immedi- 
ately discarded. 

"  Routine  (cliche)  is  highly  esteemed  and  fre- 
quently required ;  in  musical  *  officialdom '  it  is  a 
sine  qua  non,"  writes  Busoni.  "  That  routine  in 
music  should  exist  at  all,  and  furthermore  that 
it  can  be  nominated  as  a  condition  in  the  musi- 
[202] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

clan's  bond,  is  another  proof  of  the  narrow  con- 
fines of  our  musical  art.  Routine  signifies  the 
acquisition  of  a  modicum  of  experience  and  art 
craft,  and  their  application  to  all  cases  which  may 
occur;  hence,  there  must  be  an  astounding  num- 
ber of  analogous  cases.  Now  I  like  to  imagine  a 
species  of  art-praxis  wherein  each  case  should  be 
a  new  one,  an  exception."  Even  so  early  a  com- 
poser (using  early  in  a  loose  sense)  as  Schumann 
found  it  unnecessary,  at  times,  to  close  a  piece 
with  the  tonic ;  and  many  other  composers  have 
disregarded  the  rule  since,  leaving  the  ear  hang- 
ing in  the  air,  so  to  speak.  Is  there  any  more 
reason  why  all  pieces  should  end  on  the  tonic 
than  that  all  books  should  end  happily  or  all 
pictures  be  painted  in  black  and  white?  In  music 
which  Mozart  wrote  at  the  age  of  four  there  are 
chords  of  the  second  (and  they  occur  in  music  be- 
fore Mozart).  In  books  of  the  period  you  can 
read  of  the  horror  with  which  ears  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  nineteenth  century  received  consecu- 
tive fifths.  Some  of  the  modern  French  compos- 
ers have  disposed  of  the  cliche  of  a  symphony  in 
four  movements.  Chausson,  Franck,  and  Dukas 
have  written  symphonies  in  three  parts.  What 
composer  (even  the  most  academic)  ever  followed 
the  letter  of  a  precept  if  he  found  a  better  way 


The    Bridge    Burners 

of  expressing  himself?  Moussorgsky  avoided 
cliche  as  he  would  have  avoided  the  plague. 
He  took  all  the  short  cuts  possible.  There 
are  no  preambles  and  addendas,  or  other  dod- 
dering concessions  to  scientific  art  in  his  music 
dramas  and  his  songs.  He  gives  the  words  their 
natural  accent  and  the  voice  its  natural  inflec- 
tions. Death  is  not  always  rewarded  with  blows 
on  the  big  drum.  The  composer  sometimes  ex- 
presses the  end,  quite  simply,  in  silence.  In  all 
the  arts  the  horror  of  cliche  asserts  itself  so  vio- 
lently indeed  that  we  find  Robert  Ross  ("  Masks 
and  Phases  ")  assailing  Walter  Pater  for  such  a 
fall  from  grace  as  the  use  of  the  phrase,  "  rebel- 
lious masses  of  black  hair."  Of  course  some  small 
souls  are  so  busy  defying  cliche,  with  no  ade- 
quate reason  for  doing  so,  that  they  make  them- 
selves ridiculous.  And  as  an  example  of  this 
preoccupation  I  may  tell  an  anecdote  related  to 
me  by  George  Moore.  "  For  a  time,"  he  said, 
"Augusta  Holmes  was  interested  in  an  opera  she 
was  composing,  La  Montague  Noire,  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  all  other  subjects  in  conversation.  She 
talked  about  it  constantly  and  always  brought  one 
point  forward:  all  the  characters  were  to  sing 
with  their  backs  to  the  audience.  That  was  her 
novel  idea.  She  did  not  seem  to  realize  that,  in 
[204] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

itself,  the  innovation  would  not  serve  to  make 
her  opera  interesting."  Strawinsky's  horror  of 
cliche  is  by  no  means  abnormal.  He  does  not 
break  rules  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  shocking 
the  pedants.  In  each  instance  he  has  developed, 
quite  naturally  and  inevitably,  the  form  out  of 
his  material.  In  Petrouchka,  a  ballet  with  a  Rus- 
sian country  fair  as  its  background,  he  has  harped 
on  the  folk-dance  tunes,  the  hurdy-gurdy  manner, 
and,  as  befits  this  work,  there  is  no  great  break 
with  tradition,  except  in  the  orchestration.  The 
Firebird,  too,  in  spite  of  its  fantasy  and  brilliance, 
is  perfectly  understandable  in  terms  of  the  chro- 
matic scale.  In  The  Sacrifice  to  the  Spring,  on 
the  other  hand,  unhampered  by  the  chains  which 
a  "  story-ballet "  (the  fable  of  these  "  pictures 
of  pagan  Russia  "  is  entirely  negligible)  inevita- 
bly imply,  he  has  awakened  primitive  emotions  by 
the  use  of  barbaric  rhythm,  without  any  special 
regard  for  melody  or  harmony,  using  the  words  in 
their  academic  senses.  There  is  no  attempt  made 
to  begin  or  end  with  major  thirds.  Strawinsky 
was  perhaps  the  first  composer  to  see  that  melody 
is  of  no  importance  in  a  ballet.  Fireworks  is 
impressionistic  but  it  is  no  more  so  (although  the 
result  is  arrived  at  by  a  wholly  dissimilar  method) 
than  La  Mer  of  Debussy.  But  it  is  in  his  opera, 
[205] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

The  Nightingale,  or  his  very  short  pieces  for 
string  quartet,  or  his  Japanese  songs  for  voice 
and  small  orchestra  that  the  beast  shows  his 
fangs,  so  to  speak.  It  is  in  these  pieces  and  in 
The  Sacrifice  to  the  Spring  that  Strawinsky  has 
accomplished  a  process  of  elision,  leaving  out  some 
of  those  stupidities  which  have  bored  us  at  every 
concert  of  academic  music  which  we  have  attended. 
(You  must  realize  how  much  your  mind  wanders 
at  a  symphony  concert.  It  is  impossible  to  con- 
centrate one's  complete  attention  on  the  perform- 
ance of  a  long  work  except  at  those  times  when 
some  new  phrase  or  some  new  turn  in  the  work- 
ing-out of  a  theme  strikes  the  ear.  There  is  so 
much  of  the  music  that  is  familiar,  because  it  has 
occurred  in  so  much  music  before.  If  you  hear 
tum-ti-tum  you  may  be  certain  it  will  be  followed 
by  ti-ti-ti  and  a  good  part  of  this  sort  of  thing 
falls  on  deaf  ears.  .  .  .  There  are  those,  I  am 
forced  to  admit,  who  can  only  concentrate  on 
that  which  is  perfectly  familiar  to  them.)  As  a 
matter  of  fact  he  gives  our  ears  credit  (by  this 
time!)  for  the  ability  to  skip  a  few  of  the  con- 
necting links.  Now  this  sort  of  elision  in  paint- 
ing has  come  to  be  the  slogan  of  a  school.  Ce- 
zanne painted  a  woman  as  he  saw  her;  he  made 
no  attempt  to  explain  her;  that  pleasure  he  left 
[206] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

for  the  spectator  of  his  picture.  He  did  not  draw 
a  fashion  plate.  The  successors  of  Cezanne  (some 
of  them)  have  gone  much  farther.  They  draw  us 
a  few  bones  and  expect  us  to  reconstruct  the 
woman,  body  and  soul,  after  the  fashion  of  a  pro- 
fessor of  anatomy  reconstructing  an  ichthyosau- 
rus. Strawinsky  and  some  other  modern  musi- 
cians have  gone  as  far;  they  have  left  out  the 
tum-ti-tums  and  twilly-wigs  which  connect  the 
pregnant  phrases  in  their  music.  .  .  .  This  does 
not  signify  that  they  do  not  think  them,  some- 
times, but  it  is  not  necessary  for  any  one  with  a 
receptive  ear  (not  an  expectant  ear,  unless  it  be 
an  ear  which  expects  to  hear  something  pleasant!) 
to  do  so.  In  fact  this  kind  of  an  auditor  ap- 
preciates these  short  cuts  of  composers,  gives 
thanks  to  God  for  them.  Surprise  is  one  of  the 
keenest  emotions  that  music  has  in  its  power  to 
give  us  (even  Hadyn  and  Weber  discovered  that !). 
It  is  only  the  pedants  and  the  critics,  who,  after 
all,  do  not  sit  through  all  the  long  symphonies, 
who  are  annoyed  by  these  attempts  at  concen- 
tration and  condensation.  (I  say  the  pedants 
but  I  must  include  the  Philistines.  It  is  really 
cliche  which  makes  certain  music  "  popular." 
The  public  as  a  whole  really  prefers  music  based 
on  cliche,  with  a  melody  in  which  the  end  is  fore- 
[207] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

ordained  almost  from  the  first  bar.  Of  course  in 
time  public  taste  is  changed.  .  .  .  The  transition 
is  slow  .  .  .  but  the  composer  who  follows  public 
taste  instead  of  leading  it  soon  drops  out  of  hear- 
ing. The  cliche  of  to-day  is  not  the  cliche  of  day 
before  yesterday.  According  to  Philip  Hale, 
Napoleon,  then  first  consul  [1800]  said  to  Luigi 
Cherubini,  "  I  am  very  fond  of  Paisiello's  music ; 
it  is  gentle,  peaceful.  You  have  great  talent, 
but  your  accompaniments  are  too  loud."  Cheru- 
bini replied,  "  Citizen  Consul,  I  have  conformed 
to  the  taste  of  the  French."  Napoleon  per- 
sisted, "  Your  music  is  too  loud ;  let  us  talk  of 
Paisiello's  which  lulls  me  gently."  "  I  under- 
stand," answered  Cherubini,  "  you  prefer  music 
that  does  not  prevent  you  from  dreaming  of 
affairs  of  state.")  Strawinsky,  working  gradu- 
ally, not  with  the  intention  to  astonish  but  with 
no  fear  of  doing  so,  dropping  superfluities,  and 
all  cliche  of  the  studio  whatsoever,  arrives  at  a 
perfectly  natural  form  of  expression  in  his  lyric 
drama,  The  Nightingale,  in  which  there  is  no 
working-out  or  development  of  themes;  the  music 
is  intended  to  comment  upon,  to  fill  with  a  bigger 
meaning,  the  action  as  it  proceeds,  without  re- 
sorting to  tricks  which  require  mental  effort  on 
the  part  of  the  auditor.  The  composer  does  not 
[208] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

wish  to  burden  him  with  any  more  mental  effort 
than  the  mere  listening  to  the  piece  requires  and 
he  strikes  to  the  soul  with  the  poignancy  of  his 
expression.  (The  foregoing  may  easily  be  misun- 
derstood. It  does  not  mean  necessarily  that  there 
is  no  polyphony,  that  there  are  no  parts  leading 
hither  and  thither  in  the  music  of  Strawinsky. 
It  does  not  mean  that  dissonance  has  become  an 
end  in  itself  with  this  composer.  It  simply  means 
that  he  has  let  his  inspiration  take  the  form  nat- 
ural to  it  and  has  not  tried  to  cramp  his  inspira- 
tion into  proscribed  forms.  There  should  be  no 
more  difficulty  in  understanding  him  than  in  un- 
derstanding Beethoven  once  one  arrives  at  listen- 
ing with  unbiased  ears.  The  trouble  is  that  too 
many  of  us  have  made  up  our  minds  not  to  listen 
to  anything  which  does  not  conform  with  our 
own  precious  opinions.) 

At  the  risk  of  being  misunderstood  by  some  and 
for  the  sake  of  making  myself  clearer  to  others 
I  hazard  a  frivolous  figure.  Say  that  Wagner's 
formula  for  composition  be  represented  by  some 
expression;  I  will  choose  the  simple  proverb, 
"  Make  hay  while  the  sun  shines."  Humperdinck 
is  content  to  change  a  single  detail  of  this  for- 
mula. He  says,  musically  speaking,  "  Make 
wheat  while  the  sun  shines."  Richard  Strauss 
[209] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

makes  a  more  complete  inversion.  His  para- 
phrase would  suggest  something  like  this,  "  Make 
brass  while  the  band  brays."  Strawinsky,  wea- 
ried of  the  whole  business  (as  was  Debussy  be- 
fore him;  genius  does  not  paraphrase)  uses  only 
two  words  of  the  formula  .  .  .  say  "  make  "  and 
"  sun."  Later  even  these  are  negligible,  as  each 
new  composer  makes  his  own  laws  and  his  own 
formulas.  The  infinity  of  it!  In  time  the  work 
of  Strawinsky  will  establish  a  cliche  to  be  scorned 
by  a  new  generation  (scorned  in  the  sense  that  it 
will  not  be  imitated,  except  by  inferior  men). 

That  his  music  is  vibrant  and  beautiful  we  may 
be  sure  and  it  has  happened  that  all  of  it  has  been 
appreciated  by  a  very  worth-while  public.  He 
has  done  what  Benedetto  Croce  in  his  valuable 
work,  "  ^Esthetic,"  demands  of  the  artist.  He  has 
expressed  himself  .  .  .  for  beauty  is  expression. 
"  Artists,"  says  this  writer,  "  while  making  a  ver- 
bal pretence  of  agreeing,  or  yielding  a  feigned  obe- 
dience to  them,  have  always  disregarded  (these) 
laws  of  styles.  Every  true  work  of  art  has  vio- 
lated some  established  class  and  upset  the  ideas 
of  the  critics  who  have  been  obliged  to  enlarge 
the  number  of  classes,  until  finally  even  this  en- 
largement has  proved  too  narrow,  owing  to  the 
appearance  of  new  works  of  art,  which  are  natu- 
[210] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

rally  followed  by  new  scandals,  new  upsettings, 
and  —  new  enlargements." 

"  It  must  not  be  forgotten,"  says  Egon  Wellesz 
("  Schoenberg  and  Beyond "  in  "  The  Musical 
Quarterly,"  Otto  Kinkeldey's  translation),  "that 
in  art  there  are  no  '  eternal  laws  '  and  rules.  Each 
period  of  history  has  its  own  art,  and  the  art  of 
each  period  has  its  own  rules.  There  are  times 
of  which  one  might  say  that  every  work  which 
was  not  in  accord  with  the  rules  was  bad  or  ama- 
teurish. These  are  the  times  in  which  fixed  forms 
exist,  to  which  all  artists  hold  fast,  merely  varying 
the  content.  Then  there  are  periods  when  artists 
break  through  and  shatter  the  old  forms.  The 
greatness  of  their  thoughts  can  no  longer  be  con- 
fined within  the  old  limits.  (Think  of  Beethoven's 
Ninth  Symphony  and  the  Symphonic  Fantastique 
of  Berlioz.)  There  arises  a  category  of  art  works 
whose  power  and  beauty  can  be  -felt  only  and  not 
understood.  For  this  reason  an  audience  that 
knows  nothing  of  rules  will  enthuse  over  works  of 
this  kind  much  sooner  than  the  average  musician 
who  looks  for  the  rules  and  their  observance." 

Remember   that    Hanslick    called    Tristan   und 

Isolde  "  an  abomination  of  sense  and  language  " 

and  Chorley  wrote  "  I  have  never  been  so  blanked, 

pained,  wearied,  insulted  even  (the  word  is  not  too 

[211] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

strong),  by  a  work  of  pretension  as  by  .  .  . 
Tannhauser."  ..."  Fortunately,"  I  quote  Bene- 
detto Croce  again,  "  no  arduous  remarks  are  neces- 
sary to  convince  ourself  that  pictures,  poetry,  and 
every  work  of  art,  produce  no  effects  save  on  souls 
prepared  to  receive  them." 

The  clock  continues  to  make  its  hands  go  round, 
so  fast  indeed  that  it  becomes  increasingly  difficult 
to  keep  track  of  its  course.  For  example,  just 
before  his  death,  John  F.  Runciman  in  "  Another 
Ode  to  Discord"  ("The  New  Music  Review," 
April,  1916)  seemed  to  present  an  entirely  new 
front.  Here  is  a  sample  passage,  "  We  have 
grown  used  to  dissonances  and  our  ears  no  longer 
require  the  momentary  rest  afforded  by  frequent 
concords ;  if  a  discord  neither  demands  prepara- 
tion nor  resolution,  and  if  it  sounds  beautiful  and 
is  expressive,  there  is  no  reason  on  earth  why  a 
piece  of  music  should  not  consist  wholly  of  a  series 
of  discords.  .  .  .  From  Monteverde  to  Scriabine 
the  line  is  unbroken,  each  successive  generation 
growing  bolder  in  attacking  dissonances  and  still 
bolder  in  the  manner  of  quitting  them.  I  heard 
a  gentleman  give  a  recital  of  his  own  pianoforte 
works  not  long  ago.  They  seemed  to  consist  en- 
tirely of  minor  seconds  —  B  and  C  struck  together 
—  and  the  effect  to  my  mind  was  excruciatingly 
[212] 


The    Bridge    Burners 

abominable.  But  that  is  how  Bach's  music,  Bee- 
thoven's, Wagner's,  struck  their  contemporaries; 
and  heaven  knows  what  we  shall  get  accustomed  to 
in  time.  One  thing  is  certain  —  that  the  most 
daring  modern  spirit  is  only  following  in  the  steps 
of  the  mightiest  masters.  .  .  ." 

We  may  be  on  the  verge  of  a  still  greater  revolu- 
tion in  art  than  any  through  which  we  have  yet 
passed;  new  banners  may  be  unfurled,  and  new 
strongholds  captured.  I  admit  that  the  idea  gives 
me  pleasure.  Try  to  admit  as  much  to  yourself. 
Go  hear  the  new  music ;  listen  to  it  and  see  if  you 
can't  enjoy  it.  Perhaps  you  can't.  At  any  rate 
you  will  find  in  time  that  you  won't  listen  to  sec- 
ond-rate imitations  of  the  giant  works  of  the  past 
any  longer.  Your  ears  will  make  progress  in  spite 
of  you  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  at  all  if  five  years 
more  would  make  Schoenberg  and  Strawinsky  and 
Ornstein  a  trifle  old  fashioned.  .  .  .  The  Austrian 
already  has  a  little  of  the  academy  dust  upon  him. 

New  York,  April  16,  1916. 


[213] 


A    New     Principle     in     Music 


A  New  Principle  in  Music 

ALTHOUGH  Igor  Strawinsky  plainly  pro- 
claimed himself  a  genius  in  The  Firebird 
(1909-10),  it  was  in  Petrouchka  (1910- 
11)  that  he  began  the  experiment  which  estab- 
lished a  new  principle  in  music.  In  these  "  scenes 
burlesques "  he  discovered  the  advantages  of  a 
new  use  of  the  modern  orchestra,  completely  up- 
setting the  old  academic  ideas  about  "  balance  of 
tone,"  and  proving  to  his  own  satisfaction  the 
value  of  "  pure  tone,"  in  the  same  sense  that  the 
painter  speaks  of  pure  colour.  And  in  this  work 
he  broke  away  from  the  standards  not  only  of 
Richard  Strauss,  the  Wagner  follower,  but  also 
of  such  innovators  as  Modeste  Moussorgsky  and 
Claude  Debussy. 

Strauss,  following  Wagner's  theory  of  the  leit- 
motiv, rounded  out  the  form  of  the  tone-poem, 
carried  the  principle  of  representation  in  music  a 
few  steps  farther  than  his  master,  gave  new 
colours  to  old  instruments,  and  broadened  the 
scope  of  the  modern  orchestra  so  that  it  might 
include  new  ones  (in  one  of  his  symphonies  Gustav 
Mahler  was  content  with  150  men!).  Mous- 
sorgsky (although  his  work  preceded  that  of 
Strauss,  the  general  knowledge  of  it  is  modern), 
[217] 


A    New    Principle    in    Music 

working  along  entirely  different  lines,  strove  for 
truthful  utterance  and  achieved  a  mode  of  expres- 
sion which  usually  seems  inevitable.  Debussy  en- 
dowed music  with  novel  tints  derived  from  the  ex- 
tensive, and  almost  exclusive,  use  of  what  is  called 
the  whole-tone  scale,  and  instead  of  forcing  his 
orchestra  to  make  more  noise  he  constantly  re- 
pressed it  (in  all  of  Pelleas  et  Melisande  there  is 
but  one  climax  of  sound  and  in  VApres-midi  (Tun 
Faune  and  his  other  orchestral  works  he  is  equally 
continent  in  the  use  of  dynamics). 

Igor  Strawinsky  has  not  been  deaf  to  the  blan- 
dishments of  these  composers.  He  has  used  the 
leit-motiv  (sparingly)  in  both  The  Firebird  and 
Petrouchka.  He  abandoned  it  in  The  Sacrifice  to 
the  Spring  (1913)  and  in  The  Nightingale  (1914). 
His  powers  of  representation  are  as  great  as  those 
of  Strauss ;  it  is  only  necessary  to  recall  the  music 
of  the  bird  in  The  Firebird,  his  orchestral  piece, 
Fireworks,  which  received  warm  praise  from  a 
manufacturer  of  pyrotechnics,  and  the  street 
organ  music  in  Petrouchka.  Later  he  conceived 
the  mission  of  music  to  be  something  different. 
"  La  musique  est  trop  bete,"  he  said  once  iron- 
ically, "  pour  exprimer  autre  chose  que  la  mu- 
sique." In  such  an  extraordinary  work  as  The 
Nightingale  we  find  him  making  little  or  no  at- 
[218] 


A    New    Principle    in    Music 

tempt  at  representation.  The  bird  docs  not  sing 
like  the  little  brown  warbler;  instead  Strawinsky 
has  endeavoured  to  write  music  which  would  give 
the  feeling  of  the  bird's  song  and  the  effect  it  made 
on  the  people  in  his  lyric  drama  to  the  auditors 
in  the  stalls  of  the  opera  house.  As  for  Strauss's 
use  of  orchestral  colour  the  German  is  the  merest 
tyro  when  compared  to  the  Russian.  There  is 
some  use  of  the  whole-tone  scale  in  The  Firebird, 
and  elsewhere  in  Strawinsky,  but  it  is  not  a  pre- 
dominant use  of  it.  In  this  "  conte  danse "  he 
also  suggests  the  Pelleas  et  Melisande  of  Debussy 
in  his  continent  use  of  sound  and  the  mystery  and 
esotericism  of  his  effect.  Strawinsky  is  more  of 
an  expert  than  Moussorgsky;  he  handles  his  me- 
dium more  freely  (has  any  one  ever  handled  it 
better?)  but  he  still  preaches  the  older  Russian 
doctrine  of  truth  of  expression,  a  doctrine  which 
implies  the  curt  dismissal  of  all  idea  of  padding. 
But  all  these  composers  and  their  contempo- 
raries, and  the  composers  who  came  before  them, 
have  one  quality  in  common;  they  all  use  the 
orchestra  of  their  time,  or  a  bigger  one.  Strauss, 
to  be  sure,  introduces  a  number  of  new  instru- 
ments, but  he  still  utilizes  a  vast  number  of  violins 
and  violas  massed  against  the  other  instruments, 
diminishing  in  number  according  to  the  volume  of 
[219] 


A    New    Principle    in    Music 

sound  each  makes.  He  divides  his  strings  con- 
tinually, of  course;  they  do  not  all  play  alike  as 
the  violins,  say,  in  II  Barbiere  di  Siviglia,  but  they 
often  all  play  at  once. 

Strawinsky  experimented  at  first  with  the  full 
orchestra  and  he  even  utilized  it  in  such  late  works 
as  Petrouchka  and  The  Nightingale.  However, 
in  his  search  for  "  pure  tone  "  he  used  it  in  a  new 
way.  In  Petrouchka,  for  example,  infrequently 
you  will  hear  more  than  one  of  each  instrument 
at  a  time  and  frequently  two,  or  at  most  three, 
instruments  playing  simultaneously  will  be  suf- 
ficient to  give  his  idea  form.  The  entire  second 
scene  of  this  mimed  drama,  is  written  for  solo 
piano,  occasionally  combined  with  a  single  other 
instrument.  At  other  times  in  the  action  the 
bassoon  or  the  cornet,  even  the  triangle  has  the 
stage.  And  when  he  wishes  to  achieve  his  most 
complete  effects  he  is  careful  not  to  use  more  than 
seven  or  eight  instruments,  and  only  one  of  each. 

He  experimented  still  further  with  this  prin- 
ciple in  his  Japanese  songs,  for  voice  and  small 
orchestra  (1912).  The  words  are  by  Akahito, 
Mazatsumi,  and  Tsaraiuki.  I  have  not  heard 
these  songs  with  orchestral  accompaniment  (the 
piano  transcription  was  made  by  the  composer 
himself)  but  I  may  take  the  judgment  of  those 


A    New    Principle    in    Music 

who  have.  I  am  told  that  they  are  of  an  inde- 
scribable beauty,  and  instinct  with  a  new  colour, 
a  colour  particularly  adapted  to  the  oriental 
naivete  of  the  lyrics.  The  orchestra,  to  accom- 
pany a  soprano,  consists  of  two  flutes  (one  a  little 
flute),  two  clarinets  (the  second  a  bass  clarinet), 
piano  (an  instrument  which  Strawinsky  almost 
invariably  includes  in  his  orchestration),  two 
violins,  viola  and  'cello.  This  form  of  chamber 
music,  of  course,  is  not  rare.  Chausson's  violin 
concerto,  with  chamber  orchestra,  and  Schoen- 
berg's  Pierrot  Lunaire  instantly  come  to  mind,  but 
Strawinsky  did  not  stop  with  chamber  music.  He 
applied  his  new  principle  to  the  larger  forms. 

In  his  newest  work,  The  Village  Weddings,  which 
I  believe  Serge  de  Diaghilew  hopes  to  produce,  his 
principle  has  found  its  ultimate  expression,  I  am 
told  by  his  friend,  Ernest  Ansermet,  conductor 
of  the  Russian  Ballet  in  America  and  to  whom 
Strawinsky  dedicated  his  three  pieces  for  string 
quartet.  The  last  note  is  dry  on  the  score  of 
this  work,  and  it  is  therefore  quite  possible  to  talk 
about  it  although  no  part  of  it  has  yet  been  per- 
formed publicly.  According  to  Mr.  Ansermet 
there  is  required  an  orchestra  of  forty-five  men, 
each  a  virtuoso,  no  two  of  whom  play  the  same 
instrument  (to  be  sure  there  are  two  violins  but 
[221] 


A    New    Principle    in    Music 

one  invariably  plays  pizzicato,  the  other  invari- 
ably bows).  There  are  novelties  in  the  band  but 
all  the  conventional  instruments  are  there  includ- 
ing, you  may  be  sure,  a  piano  and  an  infinite 
variety  of  woodwinds,  which  always  play  sig- 
nificant roles  in  Strawinsky's  orchestration.  And 
Mr.  Ansermet  says  that  in  this  work  Strawinsky 
has  achieved  effects  such  as  have  only  been  dreamed 
of  by  composers  hitherto.  ...  I  can  well  believe 
him. 

He  has  made  another  innovation,  following,  in 
this  case,  an  idea  of  Diaghilew's.  When  that  im- 
presario determined  on  a  production  of  Rimsky- 
Korsakow's  opera,  The  Golden  Cock,  during  the 
summer  of  1914  he  conceived  a  performance  with 
two  casts,  one  choregraphic  and  the  other  vocal. 
Thus  Mme.  Dobrovolska  sang  the  coloratura 
role  of  the  Queen  of  Shemakhan  while  Mme. 
Karsavina  danced  the  part  most  brilliantly  on  her 
toes ;  M.  Petrov  sang  the  role  of  King  Dodon, 
which  was  enacted  by  Adolf  Bolm,  etc.  In  order 
to  accomplish  this  feat  Mr.  Diaghilew  was  obliged 
to  make  the  singers  a  part  of  the  decoration. 
Nathalie  Gontcharova,  who  has  been  called  in  to 
assist  in  the  production  of  The  Village  Weddings, 
devised  as  part  of  her  stage  setting  two  tiers  of 
seats,  one  on  either  side  of  the  stage,  extending 


A    New    Principle    in    Music 

into  the  flies  after  the  fashion  of  similar  benches 
used  at  the  performance  of  an  oratorio.  The 
singers  (principals  and  chorus  together)  clad  in 
magenta  gowns  and  caps,  all  precisely  similar,  sat 
on  these  seats  during  the  performance  and,  after 
a  few  seconds,  they  became  quite  automatically  a 
part  of  the  decoration.  The  action  took  place  in 
the  centre  of  the  stage  and  the  dancers  not  only 
mimed  their  roles  but  also  opened  and  closed  their 
mouths  as  if  they  were  singing.  The  effect  was 
thoroughly  diverting  and  more  than  one  serious 
person  was  heard  to  declare  that  the  future  of 
opera  had  been  solved,  although  Mme.  Rimsky- 
Korsakow,  as  she  had  on  a  similar  occasion  when 
the  Russian  Ballet  had  produced  Fokine's  version 
of  Scheherazade,  protested. 

Rimsky-Korsakow  wrote  his  opera  to  be  sung 
in  the  ordinary  fashion,  and,  in  so  far  as  this  mat- 
ters, it  was  perhaps  a  desecration  to  perform  it 
in  any  other  manner.  However,  quite  beyond  the 
fact  that  very  large  audiences  were  hugely  de"- 
lighted  with  The  Golden  Cock  in  its  new  form, 
these  performances  served  to  fire  Strawinsky  with 
the  inspiration  for  his  new  work.  He  intends  The 
VUlage  Weddings  to  be  given  precisely  in  this 
manner.  It  is  an  opera,  the  roles  of  which  are 
to  be  sung  by  artists  who  sit  still  while  the  figures 


A    New    Principle    in    Music 

of  the  ballet  will  enact  them.  The  words,  I  am 
told,  are  entirely  derived  from  Russian  folk  stories 
and  ballads,  pieced  together  by  the  composer  him- 
self, and  the  action  is  to  be  like  that  of  a  mar- 
ionette show  in  which  the  characters  are  worked 
by  strings  from  above.  It  may  also  be  stated  on 
the  same  authority  that  the  music,  while  embrac- 
ing new  tone  colours  and  dramatic  effects,  is  as 
tuneful  as  any  yet  set  on  paper  by  this  extraordi- 
nary young  man;  the  songs  have  a  true  folk 
flavour.  The  whole,  it  is  probable,  will  make  as 
enchanting  a  stage  entertainment  as  any  which 
this  composer  has  yet  contrived. 

It  is  not  only  folk-tunes  but  popular  songs  as 
well  that  fascinate  Igor  Strawinsky.  Ernest 
Ansermet  collected  literally  hundreds  of  examples 
of  American  ragtime  songs  and  dances  to  take 
back  to  the  composer,  and  he  pointed  out  to  me 
how  Strawinsky  had  used  similar  specimens  in  the 
past.  For  example,  the  barrel  organ  solo  in  the 
first  scene  of  PetroucTika  is  a  popular  French  song 
of  several  seasons  ago,  La  Jambe  de  Bois  (a 
song  now  forbidden  in  Paris) ;  the  final  wed- 
ding music  in  The  Firebird  is  an  adagio  version 
of  a  popular  Russian  song,  with  indecent  words. 
He  sees  beauty  in  these  popular  tunes,  too 
much  beauty  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  waste.  In 


A    New    Principle    in    Music 

the  same  spirit  he  has  taken  the  melodies  of  two 
Lanner  waltzes  for  the  dance  between  the  Ballerina 
and  the  Moor  in  the  third  scene  of  Petrouchka. 
It  would  not  surprise  me  at  all  to  discover  Hello 
Frisco  bobbing  up  in  one  of  his  future  works. 
After  all  turn  about  is  fair  play ;  the  popular  com- 
posers have  dug  gold  mines  out  of  the  classics. 

Consistent,  certainly,  is  Strawinsky's  delight  in 
clowns  and  music  halls  —  the  burlesque  and  the 
eccentric.  He  has  written  a  ballet  for  four 
clowns,  and  Ansermet  showed  me  one  day  an  ar- 
rangement for  four  hands  of  three  pieces,  for  small 
orchestra,  in  style  music  hall,  dated  1914.  We 
gave  what  we  smilingly  referred  to  as  the  "  first 
American  audition  "  on  the  grand  pianoforte  in 
his  hotel  room.  I  played  the  base,  not  a  matter 
of  any  particular  difficulty  in  the  first  number, 
a  polka,  because  the  first  bar  was  repeated  to  the 
end.  This  polka,  I  found  very  amusing  and  we 
played  it  over  several  times.  The  valse,  which 
followed,  reminded  me  of  the  Lanner  number  in 
PetrouMa.  The  suite  closed  with  a  march,  dedi- 
cated to  Alfred  Casella.  .  .  .  The  pieces  would  de- 
light any  audience,  from  that  of  the  Palace  Thea- 
tre, to  that  of  the  concerts  of  the  Symphony  Soci- 
ety of  New  York. 

New  York,  February  6,  1916. 


Leo     O  rns  tein 

"  the  only  true  blue,  genuine  Futurist  composer  alive.1 

James  Huneker. 


Leo   Ornstein 


THE  amazing  Leo  Ornstein!  ...  I  should 
have  written  the  amazing  Leo  Ornsteins  for 
"  there  are  many  of  them  and  each  one  of 
them  is  one."  Ornstein  himself  has  a  symbol  for 
this  diversity ;  some  of  his  music  he  signs  "  Van- 
nin."  He  has  told  me  that  the  signature  is  auto- 
matic :  when  Vannin  writes  he  signs ;  when  Ornstein 
writes  he  signs.  But  it  is  not  alone  in  composing 
that  there  are  many  Ornsteins;  there  are  many 
pianists  as  well.  One  Ornstein  paints  his  tones 
with  a  fine  soft  brush;  the  other  smears  on  his 
colours  with  a  trowel.  In  his  sentimental  treat- 
ment of  triviality  he  has  scarcely  a  competitor  on 
the  serious  concert  stage  (unless  it  be  Fanny 
Bloomfield-Zeisler).  Is  this  the  Caliban,  one  asks, 
who  conceived  and  who  executes  The  Wild  Men's 
Dance?  The  softer  Ornstein  is  less  original  than 
his  comrade,  more  imitative.  ...  I  have  been  told 
that  Jews  are  always  imitative  in  art,  that  there 
are  no  great  Jewish  composers.  Wagner?  Well, 
Wagner  was  half  a  Jew,  perhaps.  Certainly  there 
is  imitation  in  Ornstein,  but  so  was  there  in  the 
young  Beethoven,  the  young  Debussy.  .  .  . 

Recently  I  went  to  hear  Ornstein  play  under  a 
misconception.     I  thought  that  he,  with  an  an- 


Leo    Ornstein 


nounced  violinist,  was  going  to  perform  his  an- 
archistic sonata  for  violin  and  piano,  opus  31. 
They  did  perform  one  of  his  sonatas  but  it  was 
an  earlier  opus,  26,  I  think.  At  times,  while  I 
listened  it  seemed  to  me  that  nothing  so  beautiful 
had  been  done  in  this  form  since  Cesar  Franck's 
sonata.  The  first  movement  had  a  rhapsodic 
character  that  was  absolutely  successful  in  estab- 
lishing a  mood.  The  music  soared;  it  did  not 
seem  confined  at  all.  It  achieved  perfectly  the 
effect  of  improvisation.  The  second  part  was 
even  finer,  and  the  scherzo  and  finale  only  less  good. 
But  this  was  no  new  idiom.  I  looked  again  and 
again  at  my  programme;  again  and  again  at  the 
man  on  the  piano  stool.  Was  this  not  Harold 
Bauer  playing  Ravel?  .  .  .  One  theme  struck  me 
as  astonishingly  like  Johnson's  air  in  the  last  act 
of  The  Girl  of  the  Golden  West.  There  was  a 
good  use  made  of  the  whole-tone  scale  and  its  at- 
tendant harmonies,  which  sounded  strangely  in  our 
ears  a  few  seasons  past,  and  a  ravishing  series  of 
figurations  and  runs  made  one  remember  that  De- 
bussy had  described  falling  water  in  a  similar 
fashion. 

This  over  the  pianist  became  less  himself  —  so 
far  as  I  had  become  acquainted  with  him  to  this 
time  —  than  ever.     He  played  a  banal  barcarole 
[230] 


Leo    Ornstein 


of  Rubinstein's ;  to  be  sure  he  almost  made  it  sound 
like  an  interesting  composition;  he  played  a 
scherzino  of  his  own  that  any  one  from  Schiitt 
to  Moszkowski  might  have  signed ;  he  played  some- 
thing of  Grieg's  which  may  have  pleased  Mr.  Finck 
and  two  or  three  ladies  in  the  audience  but  which 
certainly  left  me  cold ;  and  he  concluded  this  group 
with  a  performance  of  Liszt's  arrangement  of  the 
waltz  from  Gounod's  Fau$t.  Thereupon  there  was 
so  much  applause  that  he  came  back  and  played 
his  scherzino  again.  His  repertoire  in  this  genre 
was  probably  too  limited  to  admit  of  his  adding 
a  fresh  number.  ...  At  this  point  I  arose  and 
left  the  hall,  more  in  wonder  than  in  indigna- 
tion. 

Was  this  the  musician  who  had  been  reviled  and 
hissed?  Was  this  the  pianist  and  composer  whom 
Huneker  had  dubbed  the  only  real  futurist  in  mod- 
ern music?  It  was  not  the  Ornstein  I  myself  had 
heard  a  few  weeks  previously  striking  the  key- 
boards with  his  fists  in  the  vociferous  measures  of 
The  Wild  Men's  Dance;  it  was  not  the  colour 
painter  of  the  two  Impressions  of  Notre  Dame; 
it  was  not  the  Ornstein  who  in  a  dark  corner  of 
Pogliani's  glowed  with  glee  over  the  possibility  of 
dividing  and  redividing  the  existing  scale  into 
eighth,  sixteenth,  and  twenty-fourth  tones.  .  .  . 
[231] 


Leo    Ornstein 


This  was  another  Ornstein  and  in  searching  my 
memory  I  discovered  him  to  be  the  oldest  Ornstein 
of  all.  I  remembered  five  years  back  when  I  was 
assistant  to  the  musical  critic  of  the  "  New  York 
Times  "  and  had  been  sent  to  hear  a  boy  prodigy 
play  on  a  Sunday  evening  at  the  New  Amsterdam 
Theatre.  Concerts  by  serious  artists  at  that 
period  seldom  took  place  outside  of  recognized 
concert  halls,  nor  did  they  occur  on  Sunday  nights. 
But  there  was  something  about  this  concert  that 
impressed  itself  upon  me  and  I  wrote  more  than 
the  usual  perfunctory  notice  on  this  occasion. 
Here  is  my  account  of  what  I  think  must  have  been 
Leo  Ornstein's  first  public  appearance  (March  5, 
1911),  dug  from  an  old  scrap  book: 

"  The  New  Amsterdam  Theatre  is  a  strange 
place  for  a  recital  of  pianoforte  music,  but  one  was 
held  there  last  evening,  when  Leo  Ornstein,  the 
latest  wunderkind  to  claim  metropolitan  attention, 
appeared  before  a  very  large  audience  to  con- 
tribute his  interpretation  of  a  programme  which 
would  have  tested  any  fully  grown-up  talent. 

"  It  began  with  Bach's  Chromatic  Fantasy  and 
Fugue,  included  Beethoven's  Sonata  Appassionato, 
six  Chopin  numbers,  and  finally  Rubinstein's  D 
minor  concerto,  in  which  young  Ornstein  was  as- 
sisted by  the  Volpe  Symphony  Orchestra.  To  say 


Leo    O  rnstein 


that  this  boy  has  great  talent  would  be  to  mention 
the  obvious,  but  to  say  that  as  yet  he  is  ripe  for 
such  matters  as  he  undertook  last  night  would  be 
stretching  the  truth.  It  should  be  stated,  how- 
ever, that  his  command  of  tone  colour  is  already 
great  and  that  his  technique  is  usually  adequate 
for  the  demands  which  the  music  made,  although 
in  some  passages  in  the  final  movement  of  the 
Beethoven  sonata  his  strength  seemed  to  desert 
him." 

I  never  even  heard  of  Leo  Ornstein  again  after 
this  concert  at  the  New  Amsterdam  (his  exploits 
in  Europe  escaped  my  eyes  and  ears)  until  he  gave 
the  famous  series  of  concerts  at  the  Bandbox  The- 
atre in  January  and  February  of  1915,  a  series 
of  concerts  which  really  startled  musical  New  York 
and  even  aroused  orchestral  conductors,  in  some 
measure,  out  of  their  lethargic  method  of  pro- 
gramme-making. So  far  as  he  was  able  Ornstein 
constructed  his  programmes  entirely  from  the 
"  music  of  the  future,"  and  patrons  of  piano  recit- 
als were  astonished  to  discover  that  a  pianist 
could  give  four  concerts  without  playing  any  music 
by  Bach,  Beethoven,  Chopin,  Schumann,  Brahms, 
Liszt,  or  Schubert.  .  .  .  Since  these  occasions 
Ornstein  has  been  considered  the  high  apostle  of 
the  new  art  in  America,  as  the  post-futurist  com- 
[233] 


Leo    Ornstein 


poser,  and  as  a  pianist  of  great  technical  powers 
and  a  luscious  tone  quality  (it  does  not  seem 
strange  that  these  attributes  are  somewhat  exag- 
gerated in  so  young  a  man). 

Nearly  a  year  later  (December  15,  1915,  to  be 
exact)  Ornstein  gave  another  concert  at  the  Cort 
Theatre  in  New  York.  Here  are  my  impressions 
of  that  occasion,  noted  down  shortly  after: 

"  Leo  Ornstein,  a  few  years  ago  a  poor  Russian 
Jew  music  student,  is  rapidly  by  way  of  becoming 
an  institution.  His  concerts  are  largely  attended 
and  he  is  even  taken  seriously  by  the  press,  espe- 
cially in  England. 

"  He  slouched  on  the  stage,  stooping,  in  his 
usual  listless  manner,  his  long  arms  hanging  limp 
at  his  sides  like  those  of  a  gorilla.  His  head  is 
beautiful,  crowned  with  an  overflowing  crop  of 
black  hair,  soulful  eyes,  a  fine  mask.  There  are 
pauses  without  expression  but  sometimes,  notably 
when  he  plays  The  Wild  Men's  Dance,  his  face 
lights  up  with  a  sort  of  sardonic  appreciation. 
He  has  discarded  his  sack  cloth  coat  for  a  velvet 
jacket  of  similar  cut. 

"  He  began  with  two  lovely  impressionistic 
things  by  Vannin  (Sanborn  says  that  this  is  *  pro- 
gramme for  Ornstein '),  The  Waltzers  and  Night. 
A  long  sonata  by  Cyril  Scott  (almost  entirely  in 


Leo    Ornstein 


the  whole-tone  scale,  sounding  consequently  like 
Debussy  out  of  Bach,  for  there  was  a  fugue  and 
a  smell  of  the  academy)  followed.  Ravel's 
Oiseaux  Tristes  twittered  their  sorrows  prettily  in 
the  treble,  and  a  sonatina  by  the  same  composer 
seemed  negligible.  Albeniz's  Almeria,  a  section 
of  the  twelve-parted  Iberia,  was  a  Spanish  picture 
of  worth.  Ornstein  followed  with  his  own  pieces, 
Improvisata,  a  vivid  bit  of  colour  and  rhythm,  and 
Impressions  of  the  Thames,  in  which  an  attempt 
was  made  to  picture  the  heavy  smoking  barges, 
the  labours  on  the  river,  the  shrill  sirens  of  the 
tugs.  The  limited  (is  it,  I  wonder?)  medium  of 
the  piano  made  all  this  sound  rather  Chinese. 
But  some  got  the  picture.  A  few  laughed.  The 
Wild  Men's  Dance  convulsed  certain  parts  of  the 
audience.  It  always  does  (but  this  may  well  be 
hysteria)  ;  others  were  struck  with  wonder  by  its 
thrill.  Certainly  a  powerful  massing  of  notes, 
creating  wild  effects  in  tone,  and  a  compelling 
rhythm.  In  the  Fairy  Pictures  of  Korngold, 
which  closed  the  programme,  Ornstein  was  not  at 
his  best;  nor,  for  that  matter,  was  Korngold. 
They  were  written  when  the  composer  was  a  very 
young  boy  and  they  are  not  particularly  original, 
spontaneous,  or  beautiful.  The  difficulties  exist 
for  the  player  rather  than  for  the  hearer.  .  .  . 
[235] 


Leo    Ornstein 


Ornstein  did  not  bring  out  their  humour.  Hu- 
mour, as  yet,  is  not  an  attribute  of  his  playing. 
He  has  always  imparted  to  the  piano  a  beautiful 
tone;  his  touch  is  almost  as  fine  as  Pachmann's. 
But  his  powers  are  ripening  in  every  direction. 
Formerly  he  dwelt  too  long  on  nuances,  fussed  too 
much  with  details.  His  style  is  becoming  broader. 
His  technique  has  always  been  ample.  There  is 
no  doubt  but  that  he  will  become  a  power  in  the 
music  world." 

Some  time  later  I  met  Leo  Ornstein  and  we 
talked  over  a  table.  He  is  fluid  in  conversation 
and  while  he  talks  he  clasps  and  unclasps  his  hands. 
.  .  .  He  referred  to  his  debut  at  the  New  Amster- 
dam. "  My  ambition  then  was  to  play  the  con- 
certos of  Rubinstein  and  Tschaikowsky  .  .  .  and 
I  satisfied  it.  Soon  after  that  concert  I  went 
abroad.  .  .  .  Suddenly  the  new  thing  came  to  me, 
and  I  began  to  write  and  play  in  the  style  which 
has  since  become  identified  with  my  name.  It  was 
music  that  I  felt  and  I  realized  that  I  had  become 
myself  at  last,  although  at  first,  to  be  frank,  it 
horrified  me  as  much  as  it  has  since  horrified  oth- 
ers. Mind  you,  when  I  took  the  leap  I  had  never 
seen  any  music  by  Schoenberg  or  Strawinsky.  I 
was  unaware  that  there  was  such  a  generality  as 
'  futurism.' 

[236] 


Leo    O  rnstein 


"  I  spent  some  time  in  Norway  and  Vienna, 
where  I  met  Leschetitzky  "  (this  incident  is  re- 
ferred to  elsewhere  in  this  volume)  "  and  then  I 
went  down  to  Paris.  I  was  very  poor.  ...  I 
met  Harold  Bauer  and  one  day  I  went  to  play  for 
him.  We  had  a  furious  argument  all  day.  He 
couldn't  understand  my  music.  But  he  asked  me 
to  come  again  the  next  day,  and  I  did.  This 
time  Walter  Morse  Rummel  was  there  and  he  sug- 
gested that  Calvocoressi  would  be  interested  in  me. 
So  he  gave  me  a  note  to  Calvocoressi. 

"  Calvocoressi  is  a  Greek  but  he  speaks  all 
languages.  He  read  my  note  of  introduction  and 
asked  me  if  I  spoke  French  or  English.  We  spoke 
a  little  Russian  together.  Then  he  asked  me  to 
play.  While  I  played  his  eyes  snapped  and  he 
uttered  several  sudden  ejaculations.  *  Play  that 
again,'  he  said,  when  I  had  concluded  one  piece. 
Later  on  he  asked  some  of  his  friends  to  hear  me. 
...  At  the  time  he  was  giving  a  series  of  lectures 
on  modern  musicians,  Strauss,  Debussy,  Dukas, 
Ravel,  Schoenberg,  and  Strawinsky,  and  he  in- 
cluded me  in  the  list !  I  illustrated  two  of  his  lec- 
tures and  after  I  had  concluded  my  performance 
of  the  music  of  other  composers  he  asked  me  to 
play  something  of  my  own,  which  I  did.  .  .  ." 
Ornstein  looked  amusingly  rueful.  "  The  audi- 
[237] 


Leo    O  rnstein 


tors  were  not  actually  rude.  How  could  they  be 
when  I  followed  Calvocoressi?  But  they  giggled 
a  little.  Later  on  in  London  they  did  more  than 
giggle. 

"  I  went  to  London  because  my  means  were  get- 
ting low.  I  had  almost  no  money  at  all,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact.  ...  In  London  I  found  Calvocoressi's 
influence  of  great  value  (he  had  already  written 
an  article  about  me)  and  some  people  at  Oxford 
had  heard  me  in  Paris.  These  friends  helped ;  be- 
sides I  played  the  Steinway  piano  and  the  Stein- 
ways  finally  gave  me  a  concert  in  Steinway  Hall. 
At  my  first  concert  (this  was  in  the  spring  of 
1914)  I  played  music  by  other  composers.  At 
my  second  concert,  devoted  to  my  own  composi- 
tions, I  might  have  played  anything.  I  couldn't 
hear  the  piano  myself.  The  crowd  whistled  and 
howled  and  even  threw  handy  missiles  on  the  stage 
.  .  .  but  that  concert  made  me  famous,"  Ornstein 
wound  up  with  a  smile. 

He  is  a  hard-working  youth,  serious,  it  would 
seem,  to  the  heart.  His  published  music  is  num- 
bered into  the  thirties  and  his  repertoire  is  ex- 
tensive. He  spends  a  great  deal  of  time  working 
hard  on  the  music  of  a  by-gone  age,  although  he 
finds  it  no  stimulation  for  this  one,  but  to  be  taken 
seriously  as  a  pianist  he  is  obliged  to  prove  to 
[238] 


Leo    Ornstein 


melomaniacs  that  he  has  the  equipment  to  play 
the  classic  composers.  Of  all  the  compositions 
that  he  learns,  however,  he  complains  of  his  own 
as  the  most  difficult  to  memorize ;  a  glance  at  The 
Wild  Men's  Dance  or  more  particularly  at  a  page 
of  his  second  sonata  for  violin  and  piano  will  con- 
vince any  one  of  the  truth  of  this  assertion.  The 
chords  will  prove  strangers  to  many  a  well-trained 
eye.  I  wonder  if  so  uncannily  gifted  a  sight 
reader  as  Walter  Damrosch,  who  can  play  an 
orchestral  score  on  the  piano  at  sight,  could  read 
this  music? 

Of  his  principles  of  composition  the  boy  says 
only  that  he  writes  what  he  feels.  He  has  no  re- 
gard for  the  rules,  although  he  has  studied  them 
enough  to  break  them  thoroughly.  He  thinks 
there  is  an  underlying  basis  of  theory  for  his 
method  of  composition,  which  may  be  formulated 
later.  It  is  not  his  purpose  to  formulate  it.  He 
is  sincere  in  his  art. 

Once  he  said  to  me,  "  I  hate  cleverness.  I  don't 
want  to  be  clever.  I  hate  to  be  called  clever.  I 
am  not  clever.  I  don't  like  clever  people.  Art 
that  is  merely  clever  is  not  art  at  all." 

With  Busoni  and  Schoenberg  he  believes  that 
there  are  no  discords,  only  chords  and  chords  .  .  . 
and  that  there  are  many  combinations  of  notes, 
[239] 


Leo    Ornstein 


"  millions  of  them  "  which  have  not  yet  been  de- 
vised. 

"  When  I  feel  that  the  existing  enharmonic 
scale  is  limiting  me  I  shall  write  in  quarter 
tones.  In  time  I  think  the  ear  can  be  trained  to 
grasp  eighth  tones.  Instruments  only  exist  to 
perform  music  and  new  instruments  will  be  created 
to  meet  the  new  need.  It  can  be  met  now  on  the 
violin  or  in  the  voice.  The  piano,  of  course,  is 
responsible  for  the  rigidity  of  the  present  scale." 

Ornstein  never  rewrites.  If  his  inspiration  does 
not  come  the  first  time  it  never  comes.  He  does 
not  try  to  improve  a  failure.  His  method  is  to 
write  as  much  as  he  can  spontaneously  on  one  day, 
and  to  pick  the  composition  up  where  he  left  off 
on  the  next. 

His  opinions  of  other  modern  composers  are 
interesting:  he  considers  Ravel  greater  than  De- 
bussy, and  speaks  with  enthusiasm  about  Daphnis 
et  Chloe.  He  has  played  music  by  Satie  in  pri- 
vate but  does  not  find  it  "  stimulating  or  interest- 
ing." .  .  .  Schoenberg  ..."  the  last  of  the  aca- 
demics ...  all  brain,  no  spirit.  His  music  is 
mathematical.  He  does  not  feel  it.  Korngold's 
pieces  are  pretty  but  he  has  done  nothing  im- 
portant. Scriabine  was  a  great  theorist  who 
never  achieved  his  goal.  He  helped  others  on. 
[240] 


Leo    Ornstein 


But  Strawinsky  is  the  most  stimulating  and  inter- 
esting of  all  the  modern  composers.  He  feels  what 
he  writes." 

Most  of  Omstein's  music  is  inspired  by  things 
about  him,  some  of  it  by  abstract  ideas.  His 
social  conscience  is  awake.  He  wanted  to  call 
The  Wild  Men's  Dance,  Liberty  ("  I  attempted  to 
write  music  which  would  dance  itself,  which  did 
not  require  a  dancer  "),  but  finally  decided  on  the 
more  symbolic  title.  "  I  am  known  as  a  musical 
anarch  now,"  he  explained  to  me,  "  I  could  not 
name  a  piece  of  music  Liberty  —  at  least  not  that 
piece  —  without  associating  myself  in  the  public 
mind  with  a  certain  social  propaganda."  Just 
the  same  he  means  the  propaganda.  In  the  Dwarf 
Suite  he  gives  us  a  picture  of  the  lives  of  the 
struggling  Russian  Jews.  These  dwarfs  are  sym- 
bols. .  .  .  He  is  fond  of  abstract  titles.  He  often 
plays  his  Three  Moods.  "  In  Boston  they  did  not 
like  my  Three  Moods.  They  found  my  Anger  too 
unrestrained;  it  was  vulgar  to  express  oneself  so 
freely.  .  .  .  But  there  is  such  a  thing  as  anger. 
Why  should  it  not  find  artistic  expression?  Be- 
sides it  is  a  very  good  contrast  to  Peace  and  Joy 
which  enclose  it."  The  Impressions  of  the  Thames 
I  have  already  referred  to.  With  the  two  Impres- 
sions of  Notre  Dame  it  stands  as  his  successful 
[241] 


Leo    Ornstein 


experiment  with  impressionism.  The  Notre  Dame 
pictures  include  gargoyles  and,  of  course,  bells. 
...  I  have  not  heard  the  violin  and  piano  sonata, 
opus  31.  Nor  can  I  play  it.  Nor  can  I  derive 
any  very  adequate  idea  of  how  it  sounds  from  a  pe- 
rusal of  the  score.  Strange  music  this.  .  .  .  Some 
time  ago  some  one  sent  Ornstein  the  eight  songs  of 
Richard  Strauss,  Opus  49.  The  words  of  three 
of  these  songs  (  Wiegenliedchen,  In  Goldener  Fulle, 
and  Waldseligkeit)  struck  him  and  he  made  set- 
tings for  them.  Compare  them  with  Strauss  and 
you  will  find  the  Bavarian's  music  scented  with 
lavender.  "  In  the  Wiegenliedchen  Strauss  gives 
you  a  picture  of  the  woman  rocking  the  cradle  for 
his  accompaniment.  I  have  tried  to  go  further, 
tried  to  express  the  feelings  in  the  woman's  mind, 
her  hopes  for  the  child  when  it  is  grown,  her  fears. 
I  have  tried  to  get  underneath."  But  the 
Berceuse  in  Ornstein's  Nine  Miniatures  is  as  simple 
an  expression  as  the  lover  of  Ethelbert  Nevin's 
style  could  wish.  Not  all  of  Ornstein's  music  is 
careless  of  tradition.  He  was  influenced  in  the 
beginning  by  many  people.  His  Russian  Suite  is 
very  pretty.  Most  of  it  is  like  Tschaikowsky. 
These  suites  will  prove  (if  any  one  wants  it 
proved)  that  Ornstein  can  write  conventional 
melody. 


Leo    Ornstein 


Ornstein  has  also  written  a  composition  for 
orchestra  entitled  The  Faun,  which  Henry  Wood 
had  in  mind  for  performance  before  the  war.  It 
has  not  yet  been  played  and  I  humbly  suggest  it 
to  our  resident  conductors,  together  with  Albeniz's 
Catalonia,  Schoenberg's  Five  Pieces,  and  Strawin- 
sky's  Sacrifice  to  the  Spring. 

Leo  Ornstein  was  born  in  1895  at  Krementchug, 
near  Odessa.  He  is  consequently  in  his  twenty- 
first  year.  He  is  already  a  remarkable  pianist, 
one  of  the  very  few  who  may  be  expected  to  achieve 
a  position  in  the  front  rank.  His  compositions 
have  astonished  the  musical  world.  Some  of  them 
have  even  pleased  people.  Whatever  their  ulti- 
mate value  they  have  certainly  made  it  a  deal 
easier  for  concert-goers  to  listen  to  what  are  called 
"  discords "  with  equanimity.  His  music  is  a 
modern  expression,  untraditional,  and  full  of  a 
strange  seething  emotion ;  no  calculation  here. 
And  like  the  best  painting  and  literature  of  the 
epoch  it  vibrates  with  the  unrest  of  the  period 
which  produced  the  great  war. 

June  U,  1916. 

THE   END 

[243] 


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